The Bachelor in the Thirty-Three Years of the End of the World

... The end of the world: Thirty-three years of bachelorhood: I am 35 years old. Under my pillow are 17 color pages of beauties torn from magazines. The faces on each page have been traced countless times with a pencil, and the edges have become furry. I can tell the color of the hair rope of the girl selling breakfast in the alley, and I can smell the perfume on the white-collar workers in the office building, but I am not even qualified to touch a woman's fingertips - after all, I have no money, no house, and even my electric car is second-hand. On the day when the apocalypse came, I squatted behind the shelves of a convenience store, watching zombies tear the women outside into pieces, and growled like a beast in my throat. It was not fear, but anger-why I never touched a woman until my death. This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.