A storm begins and feeds on your fear. In facing one, a warrior is required to have none. I realize there are some unfounded theories basing storm perpetuation on water cycles and cloud patterns, but my father maintained that God is in charge and the lies of science are a liberal plot from Loki to draw our eternal soul from the fold. I listened - attentively, as any good Christian would - to his fantastical biblical readings until the day the good lord took him in a grease fire at a neighborhood potluck barbecue. And really, who am I to believe, my crazy dead dad or you? Fucker.

If there was trepidation before, my combat outfit had extinguished it. Every facet of my design was carefully constructed for maximum defiance: the yellows as an obvious shot at the cowardice of tropical assault, the plaid print to signify the fighting spirit of the Scottish, and the pinks to match my locks and lipstick. If there's anything a meteorologist will tell you really pisses off storms, it's accesorising. Feel free to quote me on that.

I would deny Isabelle even the simple satisfaction of uncomfortably moistening myself and my gear; In a brilliant strategical maneuver for which Napoleon himself would have patted me on the back, I turned my home's plumbing on myself to complete that particular task. Note the unrelenting determination in Fig. 1.

Finally, I would complete a script which would accurately convey my complacence to the storm:

I was as ready as any man could be for the harrowing forces outside the door. It was time to show Isabelle exactly who was in charge of this minority suburban town.

I set up camp in the middle of the street a block from my house, partly to boost my morale by having no accessible escape, but mostly on account of the really scary dog the immediate residents shelter. Steeling my grip on the sign, I sank my knees into the asphalt and loudly made known my defiance. The harsh tropical winds felt to my exposed skin as the exhilaration of a pending victory. Soon my foe would be vanquished and I heralded as the caucasian savior of my otherwise ethnically diverse villa. Yes, at any moment-

In my haste to confront the enemy, I had failed to securely fasten my armor, and a stiff gust of wind bowled me over and sent the plaid garment dancing down the street, eluding my capture for what seemed like hours as I frantically pursued it through backyards and driveway foliage. After taking a full lap of the neighborhood, we collided again at our original location in the street as lights blazed to life in the surrounding homes.

The locals offered no assistance. Rather, I could feel their greedy eyes scanning my virgin frame, retina rolling over my exposed curves. What dignity was left from the winds was raped to pieces by the unmistakable, unabashed lusting of my neighbors. Ghoulish, drooling silhouettes back-lit by candles loomed in windows and doorframes, creating a scene only otherwise found prefacing a Literotica rendition of 'Where The Wild Things Are.'

All but the coquettish outfit stolen from me, I felt a retreat to base was in order. The echoes of mocking voices tailing my escape sounded to my ears as my father debasing me from his palace in the heavens, and my clumsy, hastened footsteps translated to the blows he would thunder on his new immortal wife for step-mothering such a worthless fag.

And so I finished off the evening like so many of you, left to a candle-lit evening in the bathtub, with only the despairing cries of the cat and a sizeable helping of black-tar heroin to comfort my wounded pride.

And that's my story, at least as I remember it.
Take care of yourselves. And each other.

-Chojin