I hate everything so why should I even bother with a title?

Farewell, Old Faithful. It was nice knowing you.
Farewell, Old Faithful. It was nice knowing you.

Dear Bike Thief,

I have many things to say to you but I would like to get to the heart of the matter sooner rather than later:

Fuck. You.

Now I may begin my tale of woe:

It was a slightly warmer than average November morning. In the words of a good friend, “it was the crack of stupid”. I had just groggily roused myself from a well-deserved yet despairingly short slumber, stumbled into my work pants, shirt, socks, and shoes, splashed my face with some water and sprinted out the door to get to work before 7 am.

My bike was still on the porch.

At 10:30, my mother returned from her morning gym class and began to make herself lunch while I soothed the Saturday Christmas Parade goers with coffee and plied their over-excited children with hot chocolate. It was a bit of a madhouse.

My bike was still on the porch.

When I returned home at 1:30, so painfully glad to be free two hours early from a shift that I never should have had to take in the first place, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation. My emotions ran the gamut of shocked, upset, amused, addled, frightened, aroused–

My bike was no longer on the porch.

Question raced through my mind; had my sister borrowed it? That didn’t make sense; I had the key to the lock. Had The Boyfriend possibly taken it to get to work in a hurry? That made even less sense; he would be going in the opposite direction. There was only one conclusion:

You had stolen my bike.

I’m really tired of this game we are playing, Bicycle Thief. First you took my front wheel, now the whole bike. What’s next? My rollerblades? Opus Card?  Are you so intent on taking every possible means of transportation away from me? Are my feet the next to go? What do you want from me???

You know what though, Bicycle Thief?

The joke is on you.

My brakes don’t work.

At all.

Please feel free to die in a fiery ball of death as you lose control of the Diamondback as you have probably been blissfully unaware until this point that the brakes are 100% kaput.

Go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,

 

One supremely pissed off (up-until-recently) cyclist

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