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A bike and a dozen bugbombs

Thursday — 

I wasn't looking for one, but found an abandoned bicycle just off Ashby Avenue. A red Schwinn, with leopard spots on the seat, and un-padlocked, just leaning on a fence. Saw nobody around, and waited five minutes to be sure I wasn't, you know, stealing it, but then the bike needed a joyride. 

Dad thought bicycles were unsafe. We kids all pleaded, but bikes were against the rules, so I've never owned one. Didn't learn to ride one until my 20s, and it had been years since I'd been on one at all.

But, oh man... It was a date with a girl I thought I loved. We rented bikes and rode around Green Lake in Seattle, then ate messy hot dogs and she splotched her blouse, the sexiest splotch you've ever seen. Then we sat on bleachers and watched a sandlot ball game, some tavern against some an auto part shop, and she kissed me. I can still taste her sauerkraut. It would've been, what, 1985 or so?

That's the last time I rode a bike until today, so I was wobbly at first, and struggled with switching gears. Never got much speed, but I pedaled it all the way to College Ave, then back again, and then, sweaty, exhausted, left the bike where I'd found it.

Nobody's none the wiser except me — my leg muscles ache like I did some work, and somehow my shoulder hurts, too.

Friday — 

Woke up with something in my mouth, and spat all over my bed trying to get it out, until a speck landed on an old envelope and instantly hopped away. Another frickin' flea.

We were planning to buy bugbombs tomorrow, but instead Judith and I drove to a hardware store and did the buying today. A dozen bugbombs. Overnight, a beautiful fog of sweet carcinogens will fill every room in the house, simultaneously, with another bomb in the stairwell.

Cy is spending the night at a friend's house, Joe says he'll sleep in his car. Jake and Judith got a hotel room, and took all the animals with them. Me, I have nowhere to go, so I'll snore in a sleeping bag on the sidewalk — homeless for just one night, and then tomorrow, hopefully, flealess.

From Pathetic Life #17
Thursday & Friday,
October 26-27, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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