When I thought about my death, which I’d actually done because my mom had died just a few years before, I’d assumed I’d go out the normal way- I’d overeat until I was morbidly obese and die of a heart attack in my sixties, like every other respectable red-blooded American. If you’d told me that a killer clown was going to stab me to death, I might have even believed that. What actually occurred was not my death, although it might as well be, and I don’t even know why I’m writing all of this down, except that the end of the world is a monumental experience, and it should be documented for posterity. Also, I feel like my nephew might want to know. That’s really where this all began. A hot chick dropped my nephew, Sawyer, off at my dorm room and told me to get the boy to his father, which is my brother. Confused? So was I because my brother is married, and has been for like a decade, making this kid… well, it’s complicated. I’m dealing with classy people, here. So I go to Florida and a major solar storm hits and that should have been my biggest worry, but it wasn’t, and this is my story. It’s the story of how I wished a killer clown had been the reality, not just a wishful fantasy. Now we’re trying to survive, and all I can think is that dying now, after I just survived the end, would be extremely pathetic.