Yesterday someone stole my bike from the train station. It broke my heart. I was looking forward to listening to getting off the train and pedaling home with the wind in my eyes. Instead I had to walk. Like a sucker. I tried to find the album closest to the genre 'funeral doom' on my ipod and trudged home with a profound sadness. Like a 16 year old listening to Morrisey. I'm talking 'get lost Phil! Your'e not my real dad! Why won't you let me do anyfing fun! I want to watch the Dance show and kiss my new boyfriendsssssss! 'deep blue.
I felt sorry for my bike as it would now have to live out its days with some scummy person who steals bikes from train stations and eats catfood casserole. We had a great time together. Like the time I rode down a hill. And the time I went around a corner. And the time I pedaled straight for a few hundred metres. These were good times. Now the poor bugger was probably in some bushes or in the bedroom of some delinquent. I can only imagine the self love war crimes it will witness. I hope it meets a quick and painless death. Or some little kid gets it and feeds it apples and sugar cubes and gives it a new life on a farm.
When I was six my mum took me to a bike shop to pick a bike for my birthday. I knew exactly which one I wanted. It was by the raddest bike there. About six months later I found out it was a girls bike. I guess the pink handlebars and 'girls' frame were obvious giveaways. Why did my parents buy me this bike? I stopped riding it immediately. There was no way I was turning into a girl.
Once when I had just turned 18 my friend Chris and I rode our bikes to the pub. On the way back we tried peeing and riding at the same time. I feel this has something to do with my parents buying me a pink bike. They've truly stuffed me up.