What’s Poppin’ with… Emily!

We’re back with What’s Poppin’, where I ask intrusive questions under a single beam of light in the conference room like it’s a police interrogation. This week I sat and chatted with Emily. She’s part of our fabulous creative team, but she has also killed a man. That’s not true. Well, it might be. I’ll let you come to your own conclusions.

What’s your most useless talent?
I can do the entire 8 Mile rap. When I mastered it, I was 13 or 14, and looking up lyrics on the Internet wasn’t a thing yet. So I literally sat down and listened to it over and over again, and painstakingly wrote down all the words.

What’s your favorite word?
Antidisestablishmenttarianism. Or maybe tenebristic. That can be my back-up.

Has a book, movie, or TV show ever made you cry?
My Little Princess, because I was so afraid her dad wouldn’t remember her. Also, the ending of LOST.

How long would you last in the zombie apocalypse?
Okay, so here’s the thing—my apocalypse is a lot harder than everybody else’s. If we’re being realistic about this, there won’t be a cure. There just won’t be. We’ll have nothing to achieve besides surviving slightly longer than everybody else. Within weeks, we’ll be outnumbered, and that’s only if we survive the first few crucial days where society just collapses and dissolves into anarchy. I’m gonna go a ways, but I’m going to die eventually. I’m not pessimistic—that’s just the reality.

I completely agree.
THANK you. I mean, we could hole up in a gas station for a little while. It’s well-stocked. But eventually—eventually—we’re gonna let our guard down, and we’re gonna get got. It’s just what has to happen.

Once we ditch the gas station, let’s commandeer a boat and head out into open water. Then we can die at sea.
I’m so on board with this plan it’s ridiculous.

What’s the most embarrassing song you have in your music library?
Probably something by My Chemical Romance.

I have “Welcome to the Black Parade” in mine.
Of course you do. You’re a human being.

Tell me a story or anecdote that doesn’t usually come up in conversation.
Once, I was playing paintball. A friend of mine invited me along with his youth group. I didn’t know this about myself, but apparently I’m sniper material, because at one point I saw someone poke up through the weeds and I got him. Head shot—right in the sweet spot between his helmet and goggles, where his forehead was vulnerable. I got him twice, actually. Turns out it was the youth group leader, and I had just unapologetically shot him right in the head.

I both respect and fear you.
As you should.

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