Not Going Out Anymore

I’m just not going out anymore.

Last night I thought it would be funny to get on my bike and crash into the curb.  It was fun.  I had a great time.  Friends were concerned, apparently.  But they let me back on my bike so I could “prove” — I suppose — that I was having fun.

Have you seen this bike?

Have you seen this bike?

So I pedaled down the block , came back (my mistake), and crashed again, but less gracefully.  Performing is an art and I’m not always very good at it.

Perhaps it was the less graceful part that screwed things up because now my friends — after the second effort — thought I should not be on my bike.  I had been drinking they said.

Well, of course I had been drinking.  That’s why I was at the damn bar for hours.  (They think I am there for the company, I suppose.)  And if I had been sober I never would have thought riding my bike into the curb was fun.  Right?

But my bike is locked up somewhere and I have nothing to show for my bruises.  Kind of reminds me of dating.

I did get to walk home, however, and I forgot how much I like the trolley tracks late at night.  They follow the cemetery for several hundred yards and it is really pretty at night.  You don’t feel like you’re in the middle of a city.  That part of the night I liked, I enjoyed it a lot.

But where is my bike?  I had charged her lights and everything and now I am home without a bike.

Something is buzzing in the other room.  Perhaps my bike is calling.  Or a ghost followed me from the cemetery.  

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