Gender has grown and spasmed and spilled into criticality. It's getting everywhere, I'm covered in it, it's oozing from my pores and seeping onto the floor, I try to scoop it up but it melts the cup and now even the cup and the floor and the dirt on the floor all have their own genders.
All of this gender had to have come from somewhere. I peer into the past and find two tall pitchers, one masculine and one feminine. People would grovel before a court of men and be dolled out drabs of gender from one container or the other. Things were safe then, there certainly wasn't the current situation, the endless bleeding of gender juices suffusing every mote and flake of material within splashing distance.
I should have been satisfied with that, seeing the way they used to be, two safe containers carefully regulated and diligently managed. "MANaged", I said to myself, aghast. If the source of the gender had always been controlled by men, how did the court of men form? Surely there was a first, and a time before? Or maybe not. I had to know so I peered even further back, back into our dawn.
The pitchers were gone. They hadn't been built yet. Droplets of every color fell from the sky. Some of the denizens of this strange world carried clay cups in which they collected stews of their favorite genders, dousing themselves in a melange of liquid love carefully gathered. Others didn't pay it any mind at all and were sprinkled with whatever happened to be spouting from the sky at that moment.
I watched this world for a thousand years. People were born, people died, and the gender just kept raining down, splashing about, and pooling on the ground before dissipating.
I slipped forward to the moment of the pitcher's construction. Two great cults of glassblowers each melted and melded their pitchers. They were drenched in their respective genders, and carried umbrellas that kept the downpour from contaminating the pure perfect gender. The cult of man and the cult of woman. The pitchers complete, they all cheered and got to collecting. Every last drop of woman was put into the woman cult's pitcher, and every last drop of man was put into the man cult's pitcher. The rest was allowed to gather in pools and dissipate, and they did their best to keep anyone from touching it. While they played rivals and jeered at each other along the way, they shared the same mission.
They continued their collection. The rainfall slowed. With the massive volumes of gender sealed away, there was nothing left to form raindrops and it eventually stopped. Occasionally an iridescent drop would fall. If it was of man or woman, the two cults demanded it be brought to them at once. Otherwise it was allowed to dissipate, as the people had all started to believe that the rain had always been a poison.
Back to the present. Now there were no pitchers and no rain. It pours out from within. It is not one color or two or ten but millions. We drown in it.
Days have past, and the gender started to pool in the streets and sidewalks. Painting the grass like discarded beverages. By the time the panic subsided, everyone had leaked so much gender out into the world it was hard to see what color anything had been before.
Then it started to rain.