My body is losing weight. I'm not saying my body couldn't have stood to lose weight, or even that it can't stand to lose more. And I certainly haven't reached Lady's rate of dwindlage - bitch doesn't even have an ass anymore, fuck. By the way, I pledged to get Lady laid before the 12th. Thing is, picky bitch has her heart set on someone in another country whose phone number I don't have. Help. She likes Joaquin Phoenix too. Does anyone know how I can get her Joaquin Phoenix?
Anyways, I'm losing weight. I wore a Vietnamese chick's shirt to work yesterday, and there's no way my epic Cawasprian boobs should be fitting into anything a Vietnamese chick's boobs fit into. I'm a little concerned because weight loss and shrinking boobs are just not my idiom. It's possible that eating slightly more sensibly than usual is making me lose weight but I doubt it. I feel alright, besides increasingly infrequent coughing fits that sound and feel like my brain is coming out, the occasional stabbing sensation in my encaphawhatever, and last Saturday's dud drugs, but still somewhat concerned. Fack, I can't believe how long it takes to get an ultrasound in this dump of a national health care system.
Another thing with my body is that it's having pimples. Right now I have four. I know that may sound monumentally unimportant, but my skin has always been clear, even through my filthiest years, so four pimples is a personal best for me. I'm 27. Why do I have four pimples now, a good ten years after puberty struck set, I've cut fried foods from my regular diet and I've mastered the rudiments of personal hygiene?
Anyways. Less confusing are my bikes, now out of the shop. The mountain bike got out first. I bought it years ago when I moved to the Alps and it's been sitting in a bag since I moved here from France because I've been using my city bike. Living in a city as I do, instead of the Alps. God, that bike brings back some lovely memories - racing to Suffering Artist's house for light Camels and illicit passion, riding the handlebars to the highschool dance to buy hash while Valedictorian touched me inappropriately, and damnit, the Alps . . . I used to live, work, and fuck in the fucking foothills of the fucking Alps and this beautiful fucking mountain bike lived there with me.
That was a magical time, a kind of time every young lady needs to have in her life so whenever things get too grim, she can say "fuck this shit. I used to live in the Alps, bitch!" and then fix them. It sets a certain standard for magic. For needing a little fascination with life. It doesn't help fix the restlessness so common in people who grew up in places like where Lady and I grew up. But if I have, indeed, found someone to be restless with me, then . . . well . . . how do you thank God for something like that?
Thank you, God.
Anyways, my point is, the mountain bike is back on the road, and it makes me do naughty things because it's faaaaast and handles as beautifully as a bachelor's wanking hand. My city bike is also back on the road. Although it's a CCM, it's a great bike. I got it here in Toronto when some crappy man driver hit me while looking for a street number. I was fine, but the frame of the bike I was on was fucked. It was a cheapie, but also a present from my Daddy and covered in fantastic stickers, so I was pretty pissed. Yet mollified when the errant driver bought me the CCM. When I got it, it was the finest bike I'd ever ridden, and it's still fucking fine. It's so shocked up it feels like floating through a sea of marshmallows, light as the breeze but fast enough.