Zach Hates You

Dear last week, I hope you die in a fire.

Let us begin with the crash of my (once) lovely SV650.  My sad. beaten up moto.  Details?  Sure.

Setting: A wonderful sunny, albeit cold day on Queen Ann right outside my new to me apartment.  It’s the first day in forever that it hasn’t rained and I’m looking forward to hopping on the bike to have a ride while not getting soaking wet.  After taking off the motorcycle cover now that my bikes are sad outdoor motos, I stuff it under the cover of my little GS500’s cover, put the key in the SV and turn it on.  The bike roars to life and with it’s fuel injection is ready to go.  Looking forward to carving some asphalt, I put my still wet gloves on from the night before, then my helmet.  Giving a couple of unnecessary twists of the throttle, the shift peddle gets kicked out of neutral and off I go.

It’s one of the shortest rides I’ve ever been on.

Knowing that it’s cold out, I back off the throttle coming up on my first corner of my ride, a mere couple hundred feet away from where I started.  “I have cold tires, I need to take it easy,” goes through my head.  As I go around the turn, my back tire starts to low-side and I can’t help it.  The cold tires can’t stick to shit.  The back of the bike goes down.  Sliding on my ass I look up to see a large SUV coming right at me.   I’d say that has been one of my less enjoyed views that I have seen in my life.  Not long after that, impact.  My foot is wedged into the front of this SUV.  Did I mention that the SUV wasn’t parked, but coming at me?  Maybe I should have mentioned that.  Fortunately, he saw my wipe out and began to slow.  To his credit, no cellphone or TV, but actually paying attention to the task of driving.  Point for you, sir.

Here I am, mid-calf deep into a car, my bike on it’s side with it’s gas tank dented to all hell and plastics blown everywhere.  Me?  Alive with what I thought was a one way ticket to having my meals ingested through a straw for the next couple of months avoided.  Thinking that I still need to get out of the road, I tug on my foot to try and free it from the monsters grill with no success.  I’m stuck something fierce.  Oh, and in shock too.  That’s fun.  At this point, the SUV occupants get out of the car and are freaking the hell out.  It takes them a few moments to understand that I’m not dead, bleeding, or unconscious and help me get my foot out of their car.  I give myself a quick systems check, note that I’m not in need of any medical aid and talk to the guys after yelling a few choice expletives.

These guys are almost worst shape then I am mentally and they were in a big metal cage.  Talking to them a bit makes me realize that they are a bunch of pudgy frat boys.  Wonderful.  My sort of people.  I limp over to my SV and pick the damaged bike up off of it’s side.  Bluntly, my darling motorcycle is fucked the hell up.  The tank is beat to shit, the tail plastics have exploded into many different little pieces, my license plate lays nearby.  Not a pretty sight.  A bit of jiggling around and it starts.  Holy hell it starts!  That’s looking up.  I make a phone call to my friend while still in shock, but not freaking out too terrible (I hope) letting him know that my journey to meet him at the coffee shop has a bit of a detour.

An older couple walking by ask if everyone is ok.  They didn’t seem to care awfully much, but I’m sure they felt better that no one was bleeding on their nice afternoon walk.  A few more people my age do the same, but with a bit more feeling.  After learning everyone is OK, they point out on the side of the building we’re in front of  marks of previous marks from vehicles that have failed to make the turn.  He gives us his information and leaves into his apartment happy I’m sure that no one is dead in front of where he lives.

I see a familiar blue car come around the corner at us and lights go on.  Goody, the police.  Because I need a ticket on top of all this.  The cop takes his time getting out of the car, ensures that everyone is OK and that SFD doesn’t need to be called, then asks for everyone’s driving info.  Asking me for my plate number, he looks to the ground and noticed that it’s laying in front of him.  (Chuckling) “Never mind, I got it,” he says as he picked it up and hands it to me.  He then takes all our information and goes back to his car.  The officer doesn’t seem much for words as he honks on his horn and summons the driver to him.  After talking to him, he beckons me over with a wave of his hand.  Handing me a card with the incident number he tells me how he’s glad I’m alright.  Me too man.  Thanks for not giving me a ticket too!  That’s something I’m pretty happy about.  Bike starts, no ticket, and I’m still not dead.  wOOt.

The rest of this encounter has nothing noteworthy.  I talk to the guys, and give information as my friend who showed up earlier takes pictures of everything.  He grabs a bag from my house to fill it with the various assorted pieces of motorcycle that are no longer attached.  We say our good-byes to the dudes after exchanging information and I begin my power walk of shame to return my bike to where it started off a stone throw away.

I get phone calls and texts the rest of the day from the assorted folk of the UTMC wishing me well and happy to hear about my lack of death.  That helped to cheer me up a wee bit.  Thanks guys.

Sad, beaten motorbike.  It looks bad, but I have a feeling that it shouldn’t be too hard to get it road worthy once more.  Not as pretty, but I’m not too worried about that.

But that’s just the beginning of the shit storm.  I’m far from done getting screwed over by this foul week.

Moving on from a very loved bike, to my hated GS750.  The hand cramping bike that I’ve neglected since buying my SV.  Needing to rid the Hanta Haus of it after nearly a month of me moving out, the day after my wreck myself and a few others of the Cult gather to revive the bike.  Needing a new battery, spark plugs, and a tire to get back on it’s bead, myself and my friend in his truck venture towards a battery shop in the Rainier area.  Remembering that Twinline Motorcycles has moved, we look about for it before discovering that they’ve camouflage themselves well by renting out some space to some cages for parking.  It sounds quiet and all the doors are buttoned up, we approach the door with spirits low only to open the door easily and a bell sounding our arrival.  They are in fact open and happily shoot the shit, find everything that I need and only charge me the low sum of 30 bucks for a decent amount of effort and talking to the mechanic working on the beast back home a couple of times to assure the parts that I need.  With much thanks, we had to the battery store thankful about not needing to venture towards the money grubbing dealership all the way down in Renton.  We arrive to the battery shop and leave a short while later.  I lose $40 for a trade of a brand new battery filled with fresh acid poured out of a box that looks akin to the sort that the shitty wine comes in.  Yummy.

We return back from to the Haus victorious with our finds and get to putting them back into the bike where they belong.  Everything is ready to go, the key turns annnnnnd….

The bike fails to turn over.  Splendid.  Fastcat the mechanic gives it a puzzled look and goes back to tinkering.  A short while later, she sits back and unhappily says, “I have no idea why the fuck it wont start.”  Well…shit.  So a bit of stressing and talking about what the hell we are going to do with it and the plan is to go down to Oly where another of the Cult lives to stash it for later work on his garage.  My vote for setting the beast on fire was vetoed for some damn reason under the guise of a “learning experience.”  Let the flames take it I feel.  So I give Fastcat a bill, then myself and Calamari Kid make our way Southbound.

The day after the non-working GS, my bottem left molar looses a chunk of itself while I’m brushing my teeth.  This week, is offically the worst week I’ve had in my life.  Well, FUCK YOU LAST WEEK OF NOVEMBER.

Blug.  Currently, the fat boys have yet to contact me about the repair costs for the SUV and I’m waiting to be bent over leaving me with an empty bank account and scrambling for a job.  My poor SV is still not at riding status.  I’m on the search for a new gas tank and making a choice of making a bobber out of it or lopping the sharp parts off of the subframe and constructing some sort of luggage system.  Things are looking pretty good right now for that.  The GS750 is in pieces and still not functioning.  I’ve wrote it off as parts and scrap.  People are hopeful, but I am not.  As I’ve told others, it’s dead to me.  I think the bloody thing is cursed.  My tooth has yet to regrow and there was an appointment made today, for a month later.  I’ll have to deal with the pokey, temperature sensitive pain in my ass, broken tooth until then.

Yeah, eat a dick last week of November.  I hate your face.

Me: on sexy black SV650 getting off of work at 4am.

You: sweet effin Charger with brush guard, light-bar, and a shotgun.

As I was getting off work and heading home, I saw you far down the street ahead of me.  I didn’t want to catch your eye and just wanted to make it home, but you stopped in the middle of the road and waited for me.  I knew our encounter was going to be special.

I tried to get into the turn lane to go across the overpass, you matched my speed in a playful, “I’m going to check out your butt,” way.   So I slowed to let you be in front of me (ladies first) and made it to the turn lane I needed.  While I was slowing down to come to a stop behind you, a quick lane change and we were right next to each other.  I couldn’t muster up the guts to give you even a meek wave as you glared at me.  You rolled down the window so we could finally speak!  Never will I forget our first conversation, “Don’t do anything ‘dumb’ on that thing.  I already got you for having your plate bent (I knew you were looking at my ass!).  That’s one thing, don’t give me another.”

Oooooooo!  Fiesty!  Not wanting our talk to end so soon, I made a daring suggestion, but was still a statement that was nothing but truth, “I’m just off from work ma’am and can’t wait to get into bed.”  Unfortunatly, you didn’t pick up on my hint and barked back at me, “I just got on shift, am on three hours of sleep, and don’t want to put up with any bullshit.”  A girl that’s straight to the point.  No beating around the bush.  Rawr!

As the light was changing, I knew our wonderful time together was over.  I wish it could have been longer.  With a sigh, my foot pushed the motorcycle into first gear.  But before we parted, I had to say one last thing, “Have a good night,” which you promptly ignored while slamming your gas pedal and shooting onto the freeway.

So you know, I followed your words of “not doing anything dumb.”  I wanted to make you proud of my riding skill and prove that I was not a dumb rider.  I expertly went well over the posted 30 and 35 mph speed limit by a good 40 mph and quite dexterously wove my motorcycle across two lanes of traffic while almost grinding my foot pegs into the street.  I do believe you have been impressed.  There’s even a S turn that I set my own personal record on last night.  There’s no way I could have done it without your little pep talk.

You fucking pig.

Location: 1st Ave and Edgar Martinez Dr

“Respect is esteem for, or a sense of the worth or excellence of, a person, a personal quality, ability, or a manifestation of a personal quality or ability. In certain ways, respect manifests itself as a kind of ethic or principle, such as in the commonly taught concept of “[having] respect for others” or the ethic of reciprocity.

Esteem for, or a sense of the worth, or excellence, of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality or ability, for example, “I have great respect for her judgment.”

Deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or someone or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgment: respect for a suspect’s right to counsel; to show respect for the flag; respect for the elderly.”

Via wiki.

Recently, I’ve been told a number of times from other human beings that I’m not “respectin’” them enough.  Well, to be honest, I don’t respect them one god damn bit.

Lets begin with example one:

Location: Nightclub dance floor.

At the club that I work at, there are TVs in front of the DJ booth lining the walls.  Nice, flat-screen TVs that have stanchions with rope in front of them to give about a foot of room between the dance floor and the TV.  Now, I don’t know why every single damn week I have to tell people to stop leaning on them.  Every. Effin. Week.

IT’S A FUCKING TV PEOPLE.  DON’T LEAN ON BREAKABLE THINGS!

I know, it’s a hard concept to understand.  Now I’m sure you’re asking, “But why can I not lean on this very expensive shiny glass picture device?  I’m a patron and I can lean wherever I desire.”

On this night (the same night as the fuckstick with the mohawk), there is a short (again) annoying patron was leaning against the row of TVs.  I stop glaring at the rest of the dance floor, and shine my flashlight on the guys face.  The Surefire Defender is not something you can really ignore.  It’s made for blinding people temporarily in tatical situations, or for me, lighting up dumbass patrons in nightclubs.  I flash him a couple of times with my light and he acts like he doesn’t notice.  I flash him a few more times before I give in and understand that I’ll have to get off my perch on the dance block to have to talk to him.

I don’t want to talk to anyone.  We’ve been over this.

He’s with his girl friend who’s wearing one of those stupid “LOOK AT ME I’M A PRETTY PRINCESS” birthday tiaras.  She isn’t looking all that happy standing off to his side on the outskirts of the dance floor while everyone else is having a good time dancing.  Turns out I’ll be making her night even worse.  Poor girl.

I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder and say “Hey buddy, don’t lean on the TVs for me.” He responds, “Pfft, why?” with a grimace.  I’m thinking, “Because I fucking told you asshat,” but tell him, “You don’t lean on your TV at home right?”  The man of many words gives me a heartfelt answer yet again with a snort followed by, “So?” and continues his glare.

As I said earlier, this guy is not tall.  He isn’t physical threatening.  The dude is skinny and about the size of his girlfriend.  Needless to say, his attempt at intimidation isn’t working to well for him.  After his last curt response, I’m done with this guy.  I pull him off the TV and tell him, “Listen asshole, you want to keep playing with the rest of the people here, you do what I say.  I think your girlfriend would like to stay here for the rest of the night, and you better start behaving.”  He didn’t take my advice too well and starts talking about how I’m not respectin’ him and how I’m not respectin’ him in front of his girl, and blah blah blah.

He’s right, I don’t respect him.  Not in the least.  To show this, I turn my back and hop back up on the dance block in the middle of one of his idiotic sentences.  For some reason, this doesn’t go over well for him.  At this point, the guy I was covering the spot for is back so I begin to mosey around.  This guy is glaring at me everywhere I go.  His girlfriend is almost in tears and he is just pissed at me.  As I walk around the club, one of my co-workers asks who my boyfriend is.  This guy is upset and he hasn’t moved from where I pulled him off of the TVs.  Not happy.  Mission accomplished.

It’s almost time for let out and the lil bastard is just working himself up to say something to me.  He’s sneering to the point where he’s almost frothing at the mouth, breathing heavily and his lady is even more upset then before.  She’s pulling on him to leave while he’s ignoring her and looking at me.  She must be jealous of all the attention he’s giving me.  I’m way more pretty anyway.

I have to go deal with the little bastard that has the shitty mohawk at this point.  While I’m dealing with the jackass wannabe fighter, the little dude that I wasn’t respectin’ is waiting for me outside.  Let out takes about 15-2o minutes and he waits around for all of it.  He waits around for so long his girlfriend went to the car in tears and he asks one of my coworkers where I am.  My buddy tells me of this conversation later.

Jackass: “Where’s that white motherfucker at?”

Coworker: “Which one?”

JAss: “The tall one with a shaved head and a beard!”

C: “Dude, we have like 4 of those.”

Assface: “The asshole that looks like Jay Buhner.”

Motherfucker.  After hearing that I wish I would have been there later one.  I’m happy that he made his girlfriend cry though.  I think I’ll chalk that up to ME making a girl cry while at work.  Booya!

Example number 2:

Once again, at the wonderful club with the best patrons in the world on a Saturday night.

I receive a radio call informing me that I’m needed at the back door.  My lazy ass gets off the dance block that I was overseeing the crowd from (no, you can’t sit on the dance block) and I head over to the door to see what the crap is up.  As I climb the stairs I see why I’m being called out.  There is a giant of a goofy man outside smiling his big fake teeth smile when he see me approaching.

Fucking Lurch.

I don’t know Lurch’s real name.  It doesn’t matter.  Lurch is more fitting then whatever his parents named him.  About 6′10, wiry and dumb as the dentures in his mouth, this guy use to work with me at one of my previous jobs.  For some reason he LOVES me.  And I’m OK with that.  There’s nothing to complain about have a large dude (probably) having my back when the shit hits the fan.

As I call out his name in greeting, I notice something out of the corner of my good eye.  Some motherfucker is leaning on my bike.  “holdonasecman” I mumble while my urge to kill suddenly rises.

“Hey moron, get the fuck off my bike!” I yell to the smelly hobo leaning his nasty hobo elbows on my bike’s seat.  He doesn’t seem to understand English.

I fucking HATE hobos.  They’re smelly, annoying, and there’s so many of them, you couldn’t throw one without hitting another.  On the weekends the stupid shits are everywhere asking me for money that I will never give to them.  At one point I’d give them money.  I’ll discuss my hatred for hobos with another post someday.  Fuck bums.  Not literally.  Maybe with fire.

Stepping towards the waste of oxygen, I yell once more at him.  This time his eyes light up with acknowledgment, but still he rests his nasty arms on my beautiful SV650.

One more step and I’m reaching for my Asp baton.  “Please take your filthy fucking hands off my motorcycle,” I say quietly as I’m removing my baton from my pocket.

“That’s better, all you had to do was say ‘please,’” he says before noticing my gloved hands and my baton being readied for wack-a-hobo.  His eyes widen a bit more, but now he gets indignant.  “I didn’t mean to disrespectin’ you man.  I don’t go disrepectin’ people for no reason.”

That’s it.  I’ve heard enough of that fucking word.

“Listen you fucking idiot, when I was in Preschool, maybe even before that, I learned that I’m not to fuck with other people’s belongings.  It’s something that I still do to this day.  It keeps me out of trouble.”

He begins to open his mouth and I point my gloved finger at him in a not so friendly way.  “No.  Shut up.  Shut the fuck up.  Respect means not touching other people’s shit and my motorcycle is no exception.  Usually motorcycles belong to people that look like me.  Do I look like someone you want to fucking disrespect?”

At this point his “fight or flight” response kicks in.  His hobo sense is tingling or maybe that’s just the Colt 45 in his system ready to pull a Crazy Train all over his pant leg.  He begins to say something to work himself up to fight and save face in front of his hobo friends and I cut him off with, “You’re not worth my time you piece of shit.”  I tell my buddy over my shoulder as I walk back into the club loud enough so the bum can hear me, “If he touches my bike again, call me up again so I can cut off his fingers.”

I guess he left in a hurry after that.  Shame.  I wanted to be able to count past 10 using fingers that belong to me.  Maybe next week.

The moral of the story dear readers is don’t go disrepectin’ or I’ll take your god damn hobo fingers.  Oh, and don’t be short.  No one likes short people.

So rather then hear my roomy drink last night and giggle with a boy she brought over, I figured I’d take a zip on the bike around town.  “Hey, it’s a little after 2am,” I think, “there shouldn’t be too many people on the road at this time.”

WRONG.  People are fucksticks.  I hate people.  I figure I was going to bump into some random crackheads or something yelling at me.  I didn’t consider how retarded people are when they drive their cars early in the night.

The gas light is is lit on my new to me SV650.  Quick zip over to the 76 station I haven’t been to for a fill up.  Come to find out, it didn’t have the shitty “safety” bullshit where it feels like I’m pulling back on a horse cock because I’m not jamming the nozzle into my tank.  3.7 gallons and 10 bucks later, I hit the road.

West Seattle has the best view of the city and is one of my favorite places to zip out here.  Seattle looks the prettiest at night from this side of the water.  On a full moon, it’s even better.  So as I do my a lap around Alki there were two other bikers hanging out parked and I considered stopping for a second to talk to them.  Until I saw the girl was on a sportbike and had white leather chaps.  That screams to me “OMG LOOKIT ME! IM A GIRL THAT RIDES A BIKE BUT I’M CUTE! LOOK AT ME!”  Ugh, pass.  Coming back on Admiral Way was fun.  No one on the road and nice wide turns to use my awesome sticky tires on my new bitching bike.  The entire time I have Pandora playing on my iPhone blasting some industrial.  Hop on 99 and head into downtown.  I’m having a great time…until I decided to go to Capitol Hill.

What the hell is wrong with the timing on Broadway?  stoplightstoplightstoplightstoplight.  On the plus side, all kinds of buildings are getting knocked the hell down.  As tempted as I was to climb around in half demolished buildings as of late, it was moto time.  The lights were annoying me so it was time to leave the Hill, I took Denny heading back into downtown.  There’s only one car in front of me as I go down.  I got a goober in my eye so I have my visor flipped to wipe it out and something liquid hits my face.  Honestly, I don’t know if it was the car that hit me with it or it was from the apartments.  I know my hand took most of it and it was water.  I was not pleased, but I wasn’t going to let this ruin my night.  A couple of deep breaths and flicks of the throttle, I’m gone.

The douche is in my mirrors and I’m bombing up Eastlake.  “Watch out for the S.L.U.T. rails,” repeats in my head.  That would be embarrassing to get thrown off my bike by the S.L.U.T.  Flashing lights are coming at me from the West, the light changes to red and a cop is taking the turn to where I pull up without his siren going.  He hits the corner and jams it going the opposite direction.  There’s four open lanes in front of me and that cop had to be hauling ass to somewhere important where he isn’t the only one.   I see the lights turn from red to green and I fly.

This is what I love the most about riding.  I don’t care for big rallies or showing who’s bike is faster, shinier or louder.  Open roads and no one around me.  That’s all I want.

It’s getting a bit nippy since Washington is bullshit and still being cold.  I head back up on Fifth and take Denny down to Second where I make an illegal turn.  No one in Beltown but crackheads wondering the road.  Lots of crackheads.  Maybe some sort of crackhead ball was going on.  People were everywhere, but at least not in the road (for once).  The lights on 2nd Ave are kinda fun actually.  I don’t know what speed it is to hit them all right, but it’s not 47mph.   The fun part is to get to the light quickly, hit the breaks, downshift, and have to balance to wait for the light to turn.  I’m enjoying my little breaking game and some assclown with halogen lights thinks I want to play with him.  I’ve been ahead of him for over a block and he pulls into my blind-spot so now I’m upset.  For some reason this moron thinks he can outrun a motorcycle in short city blocks.  Sure asshole, I’ll play, but I’m not going to stop my balance at the light game.  He blows the light.  He’s a cheater.

We’re in the International District now.   The wide right handed sweeper comes up.  Taking the turn as hard and fast as I did, I almost put my knee down.  “Maybe I should get some pucks,” goes through my head as I slingshot past him and listen to the  sexy M4 pipe roar as I give the bike more throttle.  Bye bye stupid cager.  Your vehicle sucks.  You suck.  Die in a fire.  SUV wang is stopped at a light that was a nice shade of green when I went through it seconds before.  4th Ave spans ahead of me with nothingness .  Back to the empty road.

3am.  Whatever the roommate was doing, it should be over by now.  I hop onto Airport Way and do my quick little sprint down the road and make it to my place in seconds.  Helmet comes off, tunes are still playing.  I put my Rainbow Bright colored of a bike inside the Hanta Haus and give it a loving pat for a job well done.  I love riding.  I brush my teeth and head upstairs.

I pull out my earplugs to hear the opening of another beer and giggling.

…Fuck

Dear whores,

You’re not cute or even good looking. I wouldn’t fist you with a friend’s arm. Unfortunately I was downstairs while this was taking place not 30 feet away with no idea this was happening. I don’t care how much I hate my bike, it’s not yours to touch. If you asked me I wouldn’t have let you use it. On top of everything else, it’s not even a good looking bike. It’s beat to hell. Just like you will be if you touch my bike again.

Hope you get cancer of the twat,

Me

Guess what’s not funny?  Acting like you’re going to hit me with your cage while I’m riding my bike.  I don’t know who the fuck you think you are doing that and I’m sure I’ll never see you again, but for the fun of writing, here’s to you fuckstick.

I’ve been in a foul fucking mood all god damn day.  I’ve been wanting an SV ever since I’ve had that amazing 1000 slip through my grasp a few months ago.  I missed it by a day.  The same thing happened again today.  I really wanted a bike that I could afford and enjoy over the clunky ass 750 that I look forward to selling.  My roomy pissed me off at dinner over nothing.  No idea what it was that upset me, but I was livid so I went out for a jog trying to clear my mind and let it all go.  Shame I can’t do that.  My earbuds kept slipping out of my ears while I ran and anything that annoys me while I run is a big deal .  I almost ripped my phone out of my pocket to toss it in front of me so I could slam my foot down on those shitty fucking ear buds.  In the long run I know I would have fucked myself by doing that.  I got back to my house and took a shower.  Still not calm.  So I take off thinking that I can hang out with my friends and it’ll be a good night.  Not so much.  I got more and more irritated the longer I hung out.  I’m not blaming them since it seems like one of my “I hate the world” weeks is beginning.  So I leave in a huff and warm my bike up.  Sure, the way I take to get off Alaskan Way is not legal.  If the city took out that retarded cable car hut that hasn’t been used in years it probably would be.

And here’s where you come in you stupid motherfucker:

There is no way you were there without speeding up.  You didn’t honk or flash your lights.  Pulling up to where I was heading was a fuckstick move.  You are a fuckstick.

I carry a very sexy high capacity pistol.

I have really nasty metal knuckled gloves on.

I wouldn’t have thought about the gun on my hip until after I punched through your window to pull you out, beat you into unconsciousness, and thrown your keys into Puget Sound.  At that point I would have riddled your engine with a large amount of holes.

Maybe, just maybe if I knew there would be no consequences to my actions I would do this.  In the real world though, I would be locked in a little room for a long time with bad food with nothing else to do but work out and watch TV with a large amount of people that are more pissed off and violent then me.

That doesn’t sound fun.  There are no motorcycles in jail and I don’t like being stuck with people I can’t get away from.

Yes, you’re cute flashing your lights at me.  You’re tough.  What you did was soooooo funny.

You have no fucking idea who I am and you never will.

One of my biggest pet peeves is leaving a DVD player on to where it goes to the menu and it plays the same music loop over and over and over and over.  It use to happened to me with my drunkard room mates that would pass out watching a movie when I was in Korea.  Just a little bit away from me it’s happening again.

Today has not been a good day.  Boo fucking hoo.

Due to the fact that I ride my motorcycles more then I use my car, I’ve had to become picky with gas stations. The reason behind this is the gas pumps. In a car, you shove the nozzle into your tank and walk away. Bike have smaller tanks and that god damn “safety” device that only pumps gas if it is pressed down is a real bitch. If I’m stuck refilling at a station with one of these pain in my ass devices I can usally manage. This was not the case today refilling my GS750 (which I also hate). I actually gave up after filling up 2 gallons of gas. The pressure of the gas coming out made it impossible for me to fill my tank without getting gas everywhere. Total bullshit. So I hate you gas station. I hate that pump. It’s my gas and I’ll put it wherever I want.