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  Yeah, I complain.
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post #58
bio: eve

first post
that week
my links

Previous Posts
Snails in Paradise
What do you know about snails?
Career Spotlight: Field Biologist
Notice: East Coast Branch Closure
May all beings be free from suffering: late winter in the country
The country haircut


Category List
April - National Poetry Month 2008
February Smackdown
food and wine
Italy 2k7
the natural world
the rest of the world
the sexy

Favorite Things
· burdock root tea
· gingerbread
· Lucky Peach

So I was going to have to ride my bike in the rain tonight, which, in my old age, I totally freakin' hate. So I was complaining, yeah.
So a friend wrote me this story:

Shorter version: I'm on my bike, & it's really,
really, really raining outside.

Longer version: It had been raining for 30 hours
straight. Entire [white] neighborhoods were sliding
into the Pacific Ocean. The 10 o'clock news was
predicting that the end was near (for real this
time-no kidding around) this was definitely aloha,
people. The Big Wet One. The Big Soggy. Good-bye, wish
I was made of rubber.

Which for her meant that today (yes indeed) today she
would wear the sacred rubber camo shorts. The ones
that looked like something T. Randall might have worn
in an underwater golf movie.

She does this intentionally (riding in the rain) she
likes punishing herself for unspecified
weather-related sins. Squishing and mildew sinking
into her wily-ways. "Public transportation, fuck it,
I'll ride my bike." (Her words, not mine) "Let's get
this soggy shit rolling!" (Potty mouth) "I gotta get
to a pay phone to blab to my high school pal kooky (he
owes me money).

Oh well, its all a joke anyway. It seemed funny, err,
sunny when she first left the house, the chirping of
birds, the windex (y) glow of the sky, the atmosphere=
monochromatic. . Hard to refuse. And every day, or so,
(okay, weeks now) she'd been very sorry that she had
not refused, the sorriest in that moment when, taking
her bike to work over a jet black street (slick with
rain) she felt the tiniest pinprick chill in the
bottom of both feet. Right there, in the paddiest
part. For a moment she would try to believe that (yes)
this is possible.

This time (somehow} she would elude the inevitable.
Getting the bike outta the wet-by tiptoeing (bike on
shoulders) quickly from sidewalk overhang to
bank-machine canopy, or by walking on the outside
edges of her monkey feet. But after a couple of steps
it was all over. The warm of dry integrity converted
to a fetid squish-stink of an x-boy friend, who only
calls on her birthday.

I like it.

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