6.21.2015

Hungry. So fucking hungry. I keep thinking about food. I think it’s an unhealthy obsession.

~Oliver

6.22.2015

So I managed to find a tennis racket, hotel dumpster. Should have looked there earlier. It’s kind of bent, and the twine…shit (What I didn’t grow up in the Hamptons okay, I’m not that kid who had tennis lessons), is snapped but honestly that’s just what I wanted. I’m really after the frame anyway.

What I need is rats. I’ll get to the tennis racket part in a minute. I don’t exactly have a research lab here, but Ash is letting me use one of the rooms upstairs in the hospital to pretend I know what I’m doing in. Cue mad scientist laughter.

Anyway, I can’t exactly run a cell-culture lab. I don’t have an incubator or a hood. All I’d grow is fucking fungus. Maybe some bacteria. Fluffy petri dishes full of mold won’t do anyone any good unless I can start farming penicillin — mental note.

Either way, I need a surrogate for cell culture — and normally you’d need a board approval and all sorts of things to bump up the ante to animal research but yay, anarchy! I get to skip right ahead to the intense shit. I can’t do anything sophisticated like transfecting right now but maybe I can expose the rats to creeper blood. As far as I know, they don’t turn, so their immune system has to do something with the virus, right? And that something should be an antibody.

Well either that or I’ll just create a bunch of mutant creeper rats that rip my face off. Either way, it’ll be fun.

Anyway, the tennis racket is for the rats. I figure I can affix a pillow case or some shit to the rim and make a net. What. It’s better than my bare hands. Speaking of which, I’m going to go run by Sam N Ella’s (awful name). If anyone has rats, it’ll be them.

Wish me luck!

~Oliver