The Old Year Rumble

[Mac Sirloin]

It was an astoundingly shitty day in London.

Ontario.

Slush, Snow, Rain, Snush, Row, Slain, and Snain pooped about the roads and roofs. The only way to be dry was to be inside, and you'd only appreciate the dryness of being inside if you had been outside received the precipitation bitch-slap and then returned to your home, appreciating plaster all that much more. Lucky for me, I was stumbling my way around downtown with my sister. We were going to the bank.

I was hung over because for the previous three days I spent the night getting very high and watching television, mostly 30 Rock and Summer Heights high. It caught up with me and I couldn't focus. Even the gift of nerve-shattering-then-reforming-to-be-calmer Ritalin didn't help. I was thoroughly fucked. I couldn't walk properly because my boots were too tight, and my socks had pooled around my ankles into a circulation shitting ribbon of fuckery. My feet were very sore and my head was swimming like disease in bottled water. Fucked.

But I'm a trooper. I kept the pace through downtown London (Ontario) and eventually made it to the bank. I was wearing a smelly red jacket and some pretty great jeans and some t-shirt I can't give a fuck about. My sister was wearing some plaid shit and jeans. She got her money out of the bank and we walked back into the shitstorm. My feet were soaked.