My winter boots are possessed. Not both boots, mind you. Just the right one. Look, I know it sounds funny, but I’ve got a boot demon (Ruth says they call ’em “booters” in Winnipeg). Regardless, this little devil’s driving me crazy! At the most random times—there’s really no rhyme or reason to it—he squirts me with water (or demon pee, it’s hard to be sure). I’ll be walking down the street, or sitting on the bus, or standing in line at the grocery store, and SWOOSH: my sock’s soaked. Just like that. Oh, and just so we’re clear, it’s not like I’m stepping in slush puddles just before this happens. If that were the case, the periodic swooshing might make sense. If I had a hole in my right boot, the swooshing might make sense. If it was happening to both feet, it might make sense. But none of these things are true. There’s no rational explanation for what’s happening. That’s why, at this point, I think it’s logical to assume that my right boot has been possessed by the Fredo Corleone of the underworld: a dimwitted demon, a lesser loser of Lucifer’s legion, who shouldn’t be too hard to exorcise. If you, or someone you know, has the requisite skills, please contact me forthwith! Booter specialists preferred but generalists welcome.
—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2016)