9 AM, November 2, 2012
Tongue feels like it’s been shag carpeted by uncertified carpenters. Head pounding. Colourful obscenity shaved into my beard.
What happened last night? Why did I wake up on a park bench?
It’s coming back to me. After the bar brawl/book signing (thanks to Ellen of Tidewater Books, you were great, and I’m sorry you had to take that bullet in the arm for me, send me the cleaning bill), I was separated from the group as we fled into the rain. Scared and slightly damp, I took refuge in a nearby parking garage on Main Street. There, I was set upon by a roaming gang of feral children, and after an arm wrestling challenge and trivia contest, I was named King of the Wee Monctoneenies.
They then robbed me and left me bereft and bedraggled on this bench, with only the heat from my laptop to keep me warm. I managed to snap a picture of them before they melted into the night:
My battery is running dry. I must go and find the other authors, I can only pray they survived the cruel Moncton night. My spirit is already beginning to weaken. If people only knew the unspeakable horrors of the Canadian literature tour scene, they would never stop screaming.
Still, going to Saint John today, so spirits up, Corey! You’ve got tales to tell, books to sell, and emotional scars to hide!