It's story time, kiddies!
As the Sorcerer of Evil Storms, I'm not usually invited to birthday parties. Had I known that my career choice would result in being a social outcast, I would have studied to become a beautician instead.
Perhaps people have every right to worry about me.
Snow gathers in the pockets of my trousers like lint. I'm the reason why the oak tree fell on your house last week during that rain storm. I spun the threads of the snow-blanket that suffocated fifty homes in the Blizzard of 1907. The next tornado, to be named Zippy by frantic meteorologists, lives inside my left nostril and eat only fried spaghetti.
The last time I had been invited to a birthday party was two-hundred-and-thirty-five years ago. A girl who lived down the block from me was turning five; her name had been Maggie. Before any public appearance, I rubbed my skin with coal and silver flakes. I brought a light drizzle and pumpkin pie with me as I walked down the street with the other neighbors.
"I am the Sorcerer of Evil Storms," I had said, blowing on Maggie's face with my peppermint-storm breath, "the King of Bad Weather."
She giggled, oddly unafraid, until I lifted up my tattered hat in a mock bow. I had forgotten that the western winds had taken up lodging inside my hat. Poor Maggie's house blew away instantly - her presents, parents, twin white cats, and collection of plastic dolls were gone forever. Maggie cried and I collected her tears to mail my mentor as proof of my skills.
He sent me an achievement certificate on card stock a few days later. I never got another invitation again.
But you could change that.
I'm a good guest. I promise. I always arrive fashionably late and bring dessert.