ha ha ha.

Here's a funny story:

Sometimes I want just lean over and kiss you and eradicate the weirdness planted there, that abysmal performance of sometimes-friendship. I used to scorn impossible relationships. Now I'm trapped in one, one eye shut and the other looking away. How you do that to me. You're hand is still on the wheel and I'm racking my brain for the words that used to count.

"How did we get here?" Oh wait. How did I? (cue in the strangely autobiographical reverb of my roommate's guitar-playing). How how how how how... Did did did did... I I i i i?


Let's pretend this is my story, and the author decided I needed a foil and then the task befell upon you. Like one of those one-act plays and the strange, contiguous events that borderline "scripted" and uncomfortably real. Our worlds collided like clockwork. There was that one song.

"No way!"

And that gut feeling leading the blind astray. "No way!" Why did it feel like magic? We should have stopped with the high school shit but "no" turned out to be "yes", "yes" turned out to be "more" and it was Opposite Day. We looked forward but each with one foot out the door. Vans, high tops. Chucks, low tops. And now you're staring blankly ahead, hand on steering wheel, barefoot. I'm trying to mentally make out with you, but it's like I forgot how to kiss.

Life is funny that way. (muttering under my breath "love" in size 5.6 font) is funny too. You're really funny. In hindsight, I was funnier when I thought it was a comedy or maybe a joke. But then I realized my heart was the punchline.

It's 2008?

“Do you want to have kids?”

“Not really, not with you, I don’t think?”

“Then with who?”

“No one really. Wait, let’s backspace that. I don’t think I want kids ever.”

“Really—“

“Yeah, I know. Weird right?”

“Not really.”


“Well, I don’t want my life to end. I want to travel, you know, see the world.”

“You don’t want stretch marks. That’s the real reason.”


”Well, yeah.—

But you’d make a really good dad though.”

“I know. I would. I will.”

“But if it’s a girl, she better not have your skin but she should definitely get metabolized like you.”

“Yeah your skin is better.”

my bike, my butt, my cap.

I picked up my formerly dilapidated (the kids call them “vintage” these days) bike from a bike shop on Melrose today. It needed some new fixins.

I took Fairfax, racing disgruntled drivers flying back to work from expensive lunches. I’ve had many of those. Not too long ago, I ordered a sub-par sandwich from [restaurant name withheld]. My equally sub-par bill read “$15.34”. I don’t remember biting into a Kobe beef burger. Oh wait–I didn’t. I had a grilled veggie sandwich smudged with a pea-sized serving of goat cheese. Right.

Kind of wishing I had a better bike, I swerved in and out of foot traffic on the sidewalk. I unintentionally bunny hopped over bumps because my bike is that old. Wearing an old unflattering T-shirt and an even older, more unflattering shiny baseball cap, I felt like such a dork on my sorry excuse for an eco-friendly ride. Did I mention it was sweltering hot?

Only half the way left, I decided to cool off with a soft chicken taco from Frank’s. Food always makes everything better. Getting off, I heard a whistle, or more like a “whoop” than anything.

“Sweet ride”, said the scruffy-bearded man in a blue-grayish-oldish cap.

I’m leaned over now, trying to lock my bike to a meter. It was as if he was commenting on my butt, a worthy cause no doubt.

“Thanks. It’s been through a lot.” Was I still talking about my bike?

The man disappeared into Franks. I leaned against the meter, catching my breath, suddenly more introspective, and loving my bike, my butt, my cap (the T-shirt still sucks). And the best part is, an hour later when I finally ate my buck-fiddy taco, it tasted better than the best Kobe beef burger I’ve ever had.