<p>Lol, mine was so ridiculous I had to share. Feel free to critique</p>
<p>You have just completed your 300-page autobiography. Please submit page 217.</p>
<p>Lexi dies on page 216</p>
<p>After having been declared dead by way of a particularly nasty waffle iron burn, my family did not have long to mourn. Hell had in fact frozen over a few moments prior and the Apocalypse with its accompanying zombie led holocaust was just underway. I shuffled around the morgue awkwardly for a bit, but luckily got the hang of being all dead and corpsey within a few minutes. Joy and rapture overtook me as I came to the understanding that I had the rare, philosophical opportunity to describe to the world an alternate way of thinking and an informed, enlightened description of death; that is, until I realized I had much rather eat them. With new found conviction, I hobbled my way up the stairs to the awaiting meal of unsuspecting meat. I had always been shy and reserved, preferring to move amongst the shadows unnoticed; this had been detrimental in my human life, but when on the prowl for delicious fleshies, it proved most useful. Mr. Diddly, the mortician, was a skittish, clever man and having sensed that something was awry, was already firmly clutching his shot gun. Luckily, foresight was one of my few gifts; I tried to think back to my you-are-bored-and-trying-to-eat-an-armed-and-angry-man contingency plan from two summers ago, dinner was about to be served. Silence cradled the room as I sat in wait to allow the old man to be lured into a false sense of security; hours I sat, not flinching a muscle nor scratching an itch, waiting, knowing the prize was worth it, until finally, it happened. He gave out a sigh and began to ease his muscles, the second his fingers loosened from the gun, his fate was sealed. I sprung through the air and landed directly on top of my poor meal, being the benevolent being I am though, I made sure his suffering was brief. I let out a slight chortle as I thought of how disgusted my etiquette coach would be if she saw me eating with my bare hands and teeth. It was briefly after my supper that I became aware that I was once again possessed with gut-churning hunger; this inability for me to become sated was just like my unconquerable taste for knowledge, except for the whole coldblooded murder and cannibalism part. My eyes grew wide and shiny with the anticipation of what unique experiences would unfold in this new life. Feeling brave and excited, I headed out of the morgue and towards the horizon to taste (literally) what this world had to offer. The next leg of my journey would bring me to the Metropolitan Zoo, here I had finally found the answer to the age old question, Does the onset of the Apocalypse change the flavor of a Zebra? The answer is </p>