January. The month of frozen hell. The hell-freeze month. The icy death-march winter-month. Winterpocalypse.
Naked, I stood in my doorway, surveying the dead world around me. Nothing growing; nothing stirring. Just a blasted wasteland as far as the eye could see. I took a deep pull from my whiskey bottle and scratched myself thoughtfully.
"Hey you! Put some clothes on, there are children here!" I looked for the source of this disturbance and noticed an angry-looking woman standing on the street below me. She was walking with what looked to be a whole army of five-year olds, and all of them were staring at me with open mouths.
Judging me. My god, five years old and they had already learned how to judge. Such a world we live in. Tears welled up in my eyes as I threw the bottle at her and leapt to the sidewalk below, shrieking like a murderous eagle. The children screamed and scattered in all directions. Let's see you try and restore order now, Miss Please-Don't-Wave-Your-Genitals-at-the-Minors. They're free of your mind-control now; they're free.
I ran down the street dodging cars until the woman and her unruly mob of infants were long gone. It was at this moment that I began to regret my decision to leave the house naked. Not because of the cold, mind you; a lifetime of Canadian winters have inured me to all forms of freezing and windchill, as well as extended periods of darkness and near-starvation. In fact, I can actually function from inside a polar bear if it ever comes to that: this is an old Inuit trick used many a time by desperate northerners. You simply allow yourself to be swallowed by the bear, and you can live out the winter eating pre-digested seal meat and being gently rocked to sleep by the lumbering beast (the only tricky part is when it eventually comes time to pass yourself; the bears do not like this part at all).
No, running down the street naked was a mistake because it tended to bring me to the attention of the police. They seem to have a real problem with public nudity; my theory is that most police officers are actually failed dancers, and thus came out of adolescence with severe body-image and self-esteem issues. As a result of this (and of my loudly sharing this theory with them), police have recently adopted a taser-first policy when it comes to enforcing the law upon my person. I really can't say I blame them; I'm usually so drunk that it's physically impossible to knock me out through blunt-force trauma. Hell, my reflexes are usually so slowed down that the electricity takes several seconds to reach the pain-centres of my brain (police, by the way, also do not like being laughed at as they impotently push the "Kill" button on a taser over and over again like a World of Warcraft player who knows he's about to lose a boss-fight).
Sure enough, I could soon hear the telltale sirens coming my way. Police sirens, for some reason, have always sounded to me like a unicorn being raped; of course, this gave me a considerable erection, which badly hampered my running speed. I quickly vaulted a nearby fence and landed crotch-first in someone's frozen, prize-winning rose bushes. This was every bit as painful as it sounds.
As I lay in a spreading pool of my own penis-blood, my thoughts turned existential, as they often do at times like these. Why do I bother? Is there a point to any of this? What is it about my genitals that makes them a goddamn magnet for pointy things? These questions and others pricked at my consciousness like the frozen thorns of a cruel rose bush as I inched my way home, and I resolved to puzzle them out upon the digital landscape of the world-wide-web.
And that, dear reader, is the true story of why I started this blog. Also, I punched some nuns on the way home.
Note: the preceding story is not true in the slightest. Like, not one little bit of that was even remotely true. And frankly, if you believed any of it, you may be retarded. Talk to your doctor.
