Granted. You are now ideally situated to survive the zombie apocalypse. You're Patient Zero. You aren't dead, you're undead, and thus technically you survived.
(Fortunately you survived as a thinking being, too. You love your life as an intelligent undead: you work as a farmer, breeding more brains for the horde. You produce only the finest PhD-holding, free range, environmentally friendly brains, each carefully tended and matured for at least twenty-five years, and look down on the zombies who breed politicians for the mass market. Your finest products, each carefully sculpted to the requirements of a specific customer, sell for vast sums and some are counted among the finest works of art of the new era. With demand for your luxury goods soaring, you pass on day-to-day management of your farm and dedicate yourself to your art, studying neurosurgery and cognitive psychology. Your greatest triumph, the first artificial mind of human intelligence, wins you a Nobel, but it is Solipsism, a brain with five nested five layers, each denying the existence of the ones above, that marks the peak of your artistic career. Rich, polished and internationally known, you are one of the most eligible bachelors in the elevated circles in which you move. You marry for love and fail-to-die happily ever after.)
Ah, that was refreshing! (Eleven lines to eight, StraightFlame. Your move.) I wish for the legal right to throw wet sponges at politicians whenever I feel like it.