Stop reading if you haven't seen the movie or read the book.
Keep reading if you want to imagine me ranting alone in my apartment looking over my sleeping pit bull drinking a Miller High Life and silently weeping.
The fucking dog dies. Why did you have to kill the goddamn dog?
Fuck you, Will Smith, for freaking out at that mannequin and getting all snared up and then passing out and impaling yourself on your own knife thereby allowing your poor fucking companion animal to be mauled to death by diseased zombie dogs that suspiciously resemble pit bulls, thus also reinforcing a negative stereotype while also making me fucking UPSET at 7 p.m. on a Saturday night.
The only redeeming quality of this movie is its power to make me feel somewhat less insane for having one-sided conversations with my dog (although I'm slightly more pathetic because I'm not the sole human living in a post-viral Manhattan).
Seriously, I am Legend, fuck you.