Paranoia

I have posted before about how odd we become under isolation. One impulse: greet newcomers with open arms! Hug them! Kiss them! Give them gin! Kiss them more vigorously! Drink more gin! In the morning you might regret being so free with your kisses but in the moment, oh, in the moment you are sure that it is right and true and good.

On the other hand, strangers who intrude should be viewed with great suspicion and shot. On sight. And in the morning you might regret being so free with your laser rifle but in the moment, oh, in the moment you are sure that it is right and true and good.

So let us consider Jilly.

Robert questioned this part of her post:

This place was used as a bomb shelter during the fifties, and the stocks of MRE's are still here, and still edible. Mostly. As much as they ever were.

Apparently she got some of the terminology wrong.

But for me, this is the damning part:

My cats and I have taken refuge in an underground parking garage, right in the center of downtown. We're down on the lowest level.

HELLO? You are living in hiding YET YOU POST FREELY ON THE INTERNET that you are in the lowest level of a parking garage in downtown Tuscon.

No fucking way, lady.

It would take me maybe 25 minutes to find you, and the monkeys can google just as fast as I can. No one who has survived a monkey attack is that stupid - even I was sneakier than that about our location. I haven't even told y'all what town I'm in.

If there is one thing we have learned as survivors, it is paranoia - and Jilly? no way.

She's no survivor.

She's a monkey.