(Why is that the title? Because why the fuck not. Write your own bloody stories you judgmental prick)

I awoke, as usual, to the sounds hard rock, today in the form of Somebody Got Murdered by one of my favourite bands, The Clash. I slowly rose, brushed my teeth, put on deodorant, and got dressed. I decided to wear a blue shirt with a hexagon pattern, grey trousers, a tan cardigan, and tan argyle socks. I rushed down the stairs to my front door with my phone, oddly heavy briefcase, and my black overcoat with a The Who Union Flag pin on the lapel. I walked onto the deck. The only three things on the deck were a propane grill, a table wrapped up for protection from the harsh North American elements, and a copper alloy frog with a sundial on it’s back. I climbed down the set of stairs maneuvered over a path made mostly of ice, and went down the hill that made up our drive. I took a left and then crossed a perpendicular street and taking a right up an even greater hill, passing a blue American post box. I waited for the bus to arrive. I had gotten there earlier than my usual and it was fairly chilly. The bus came and the usual bollocks of an average day in the life of an expat in American high school began. I was feeling rather well that day too.

I stayed after a while longer for an academic extracurricular event and was on my way home at around four in the afternoon. It was sometime between talking to an eleven year old Brazilian about football and Gareth Bale and getting off the bus that I realised I hadn’t had my keys on me that day. I left them on the table next to the door and had forgotten them in my haste.

“No matter”, I thought. I had forgotten my keys loads of times and had always found a way in. I climbed the hill up the drive that lead to the garage and leaped over the icy path, jogged up the stairs, and placed my briefcase next to the door. I checked to insure I was indeed locked out. I was. Then I moved to the sliding door that had worked so well in the past. I pulled at it quite a while before realising that it too was locked. I examined the frame to see if I could pull it out without much trouble. I couldn’t. I texted my mum to see what time she would arrive back from work and decided that with the right tools I could pick the lock.

I’ve picked a few locks in my time, some padlocks, a fireproof strong box even. I was relatively confident that with a few paperclips I could pick this house lock. I left my briefcase next to the door and ran down the stairs, over the familiar ice, and down the hill. I passed the blue post box, but this time went down the hill. The wind was strong and I buttoned the four buttons on my overcoat. I complained about how I detested wind and the cold. I found my way to a hardware store that was just a carpark away from the hill. I imagine I was out of place and after milling around a bit I bought a set of hobbyist files that looked narrow enough to pick a lock for about twenty dollars. Luckily, I had forty on my person, since I went out a few days previous to that. I crossed the busy road to the neighbourhood supermarket.

“Hey, Nate”, I heard with the sun in my eyes.

I replied, “Hello, Sheldon”. I didn’t see him, but I knew he was the only person I knew working there and I recognised the Canadian accent. He was collecting the trolleys in the carpark.”I got locked out of my house, I just picked these up” showing him my impromptu lockpicking kit. “I was wondering, if you had paperclips”.

The Canadian said “I can get you one, if you like”.

“That’d be great, two would be ideal”, I said as we entered the blissful warmth of the market.

“I’ll get you three, if you want”.

“Are you sure, mate? I don’t want to put you out of your way”, I say with a laugh. He hands me the the three paperclips, I thank him, he says he’ll see me to-more-o, and I leave. I think about buying something to eat, but I figure I’ll be home soon enough to eat there. I climb up the hill, past the post box, up the other hill , and I’m back on the deck.

I got to work, my hands were cold and I was losing dexterity by the minute. The paperclips were utterly ineffective and I couldn’t maneuver the picks to push in any of the pins. I took a picture of my lockpicking efforts and made a note to make fun of it later on Twitter. I moped around for a few minutes and went back to the market. I was a bit peckish and decided to buy a loaf of cheap bread, Goldfish crackers, two small bottles of orange juice, a Hershey bar, and a pack of gum. I was purchasing my goods and bantering to Sheldon who was tending the counter behind me. In the span of an hour, he had been promoted from trolley fetcher to bagger (never underestimate the work ethic of the Canadian race). I left the market again, vowing to never return.

I got a call from mum, who said her last patient had canceled and she was coming home “early”. I ran up the hill and eating Goldfish to avoid both hunger and the cold. I got home. Rather, I got to my deck. I dumped out the contents of my bag and looked them over and decided this was the time to tweet cleverly. I made a joke about my lockpicking inability and the very unhealthy nature of my emergency picnic. I was scrolling through Twitter, my back on the house, and my knees bent skyward. I would have scrolled more, but my hands had become cold and I was losing feeling in them. I ate my Goldfish, until I was too cold for that. My legs were cold in the air and I laid down, as I’d seen the homeless on at least two continents do. My side ached until I found a way to be comfortable. I was on my side, my legs curled into my chest. I put my hands into my jacket and placed them promptly under my armpits. I had lost feeling in them and they were a pretty unappealing colour by this time. Instead of eating it, I found the loaf of bread to be a useful pillow. I lay trying to think about anything, but the cold. Love, life, the Universe, and everything. I thought about the work I had to do, my blog, everything. After a while, I could only think of the cold. The shivers started. Sporadically at first, but they became more frequent and more prolonged. I tried sleeping, it was worse than trying to rise from and then promptly trying to sleep in vain. When my lack of consciousness overpowered the cold, it became a sort of waking dream. I saw the sun set behind a tree that looked as if it were a painting with long, stretching, leafless branches. A single star in the sky, as it changed from pale blue to dark Van Gogh like swirls. The stars multiplied as the hour grew later and later. Slipping back into a cognitive state was far worse. My mind told me to get up and move to warm up. I did so and getting back down was pain in itself. My legs touched the chill borders of my trousers, my hands were re-exposed, and it took ages to get comfortable again. I turned to face the wall of the house, unlike before. I tried to help myself to a piece of gum, but my hands were too cold to fiddle about with the packaging. The shivers began again and I entered the frozen sort of half sleep once more. This time I thought of all the rough sleepers, homeless, and other tramps in all the relatively cold countries and looked at society with disgust. I tried to get my mind off it and the cold by thinking warm thoughts, of hugs and love, and childhood winters spent at my gran’s. I thought of laughing with friends and kisses from strangers and the nirvana found in listening the perfect piece of music or staring at something just long enough for it to be beautiful or long enough to recognise the beauty that was in front of you the whole time. I removed my hand from my cardigan and overcoat surrounded armpit and reach for my phone. I begin to type to my mum. “Very cold. ETA?” I hear a car pull up and see the light flash about. I don’t get up. The last few times I had gotten up and it was a major disappointment and physically draining. I hear the garage door open and it takes a few minutes to sink in. I rise to my feet, which I realise were nearly as cold as my hands. Sprint down the stairs, leaving the deck strewn with my picnic and other supplies. I vault over the ice and sprint like a madman into the garage before mum gets a chance to say a word or pull in. I feel the heat upon entering the garage and throw open the door. I bounded up the stairs to my room. I strip. First my overcoat flies off. Then I pull my cardigan over my head and unbutton my shirt for what seemed like ages, but was probably ten seconds. Next is the black undershirt. I pull off my trouser and pants in one swoop, after unbuckling my belt. I throw off my glasses, rip off my watch, and take my pewter necklace off and throw it to the ground clattering. I enter the shower that has been running since I made it up the stairs. It is now near boiling. I enter the stream and all I feel are my hands and feet burn as each nerve cell in them fires a jolt to reestablish feeling in the area. The rest of my body feels cold as my extremities burn with a napalm like intensity. I move my fingers and toes to regain dexterity. Then my muscles tensed, as the shock from one extreme to another. My arms and legs were sore. My digits felt arthritic I realise I forgot I had a nose and ears for some time. As the pain left, I began to think.

I returned to thinking of the poor, homeless, rough sleepers, and those who must go without heat to get by. These people go through tenfold what I did and they do it everyday for a good portion of their lives. I find that any government that so allows such destitution to go on is no government at all. I had food, I had more or less decent clothes. I was only out there three or so hours. There are people starving, ill equipped, and cold out there and nobody is coming up a hill, past a blue post box, up the drive, to open the garage for

them. They only have us and governments more focused on blowing up civilians in third world countries, monitoring their own law abiding citizens, and getting reelected.

Image Credit: http://www.longisland.com/news/01-09-14/purchase-forever-stamps-before-price-of-stamps-increase-on-jan-26.html