Zombie: 300 Infected -- and counting!

The following is a dream.

A drunk girl has her arms wrapped around me, from behind. I don't know how hot she is, but I am mildly irked by this because I am focusing on rummaging through the contents of some small lockers in a locker room. I tell the drunk girl, "Hey, I'm not even drunk," but she does not seem phased by this in the least. Her friends (beside me) make fun of her, and rummage through lockers with me as well. Apparently, I am among a group of hooligans who had broken into some sort of drug storage locker room, and we are looking for drugs.

Soon some people discover that these "drugs" are scarier than the type they're used to, and they leave. In fact, some syringes aren't even drugs; there are infections, diseases, mutation-givers, and just all types of general scariness in these lockers. My curiosity grows, so I stay in the locker room with some bold adventurous others.

One particular syringe with a needle catches my eye. It reads "Zombie: 300 Infected -- and counting!". Having seen 28 days later, I wonder, "How is it possible that only 300 people are infected so far?" but forget this thought as soon as multiple chilling screams issue throughout the locker room. The screams are not just from zombies; pretty much everyone who has tried a "drug" needle is now a weird diseased person or a type of monster. I decide that it's time to run, because I do not want to become a diseased person or a type of monster.

Alas, as I am leaving the locker room, I contract a disease. It has something to do with a tingly feeling in my legs and feet. Fortunately, the disease causes no side effects other than the ability to fly. So I fly around, landing in the UC Berkeley campus. (EDIT: Today when I went to the bathroom I remembered another symptom of my disease: I pooed a lot uncontrollably and all the poo was lined with viscous fluid resembling alien saliva. I assumed it was my sloughed-off stomach lining.)

Somehow, I had subconsciously taken the Zombie syringe with me. I pull it out of my pocket and again ponder my earlier question, "If every zombie hungers for human flesh, how is it possible that only 300 zombies are infected?" My question is immediately answered by an excerpt from the label of the syringe: "Each zombie may only choose ONE human to infect." That's when I accidentally poke myself with the needle, and my vision turns blue.

I decide, by some zombie logic, that if I can only infect one person in the world, that person should my girlfriend so we can both be zombies together. I begin to devise a plan to bait her out of her room and then bite her. My white woman mother aids me in this plan by sending a carefully devised letter to her, detailing a meeting with cookies in her office.

As I await her arrival, I go to the bathroom. Expecting to see a contorted ugly zombie face, I look into the mirror and am surprised to discover that my face is relatively normal. Aside from a red drunk Asian glow and a couple of yellow moldy spots on my cheeks, my zombie face exhibits no difference from my original face. As I am urinating, however, I notice that my penis is too small.

Jeff from my floor last year (not my current roommate) walks in. I remark to Jeff how easy it is to see that I am currently in a dream. "There are at least two indications that this is a dream," I declare. "One, my penis is too small." He laughs. Before I am able to state my second point, I wake up. I cannot remember the second reason.