I am not thinking clearly these days but I swear to god I am going on a self-hate hiatus because I cannot help but get the feeling that if you hate yourself ALL THE TIME then it no longer qualifies as hate due to a lack of comparison, and the lack of hate is defined as love, so if you hate yourself constantly what you are really saying is that you looove yourself.
Let me get one out of my system, though. It will be like smoking an entire pack of smokes in one sitting and saying, 'OKAY, COLD TURKEY NOW, BABY.'
Just the other day I went for a 14 mile run (crazy) and halfway through, I saw a bird fly off into the deep, deep brush and decided to follow it well off the trail (not thinking clearly, see above) with the great big digital SLR camera I decided to hold in my hand while I ran 14 miles (CRAZY) and of course, there was no bird, there probably never was a bird, and suddenly half-lost and unable to find the trail (this is an exaggeration, but for effect) I stumbled across what looked like the remains of a flannel shirt and an old, rusted out bicycle.
(Damn! Just a week after purchasing a bicycle, too!) Of course, it was eerily silent, and remember, this was last weekend when I was still in my self-hate (really self-love) state of consciousness, so my moral compass was broke ass. I cupped my mouth and whispered, “is this anybody's bike?” and in a moment of weakness, picked up the bike and hurried through the brambles, actually cutting myself twice on the scotchbroom because I have to make this as dramatic as possible. One branch even knocked my hat off, and there was that tense scene where I debate leaving it, and stall, but wonder if MY ABANDONED HAT WILL LEAD THEM TO ME!!! (I don't know who THEM are, either.) I compromised by standing as far away as possible from my hat and leaning over to reach it with my finger tips, even going so far as to knock it away a few inches while perspiration gathered in slow motion on my brow.
This is the state I was in: no sooner had I started walking the old, abandoned bicycle down the trail that I thought, “WHAT IF THIS WAS STOLEN GOODS AND THE ONLY REASON IT WAS LYING THERE WAS BECAUSE TWO COMPETING MEXICAN GANGS SHOT THEIRSELVES OVER IT???”
I am ashamed to admit I gave the bike a good pat-down just in case it was hiding a tracking device underneath the seat, how valuable these Schwinn Worlds from 1984 (VINTAGE) were.
THEN (because I couldn't just drop the bicycle and run, now could I?) I started pushing it down the trail in a more frantic pace (ONLY 7 PARANOID MILES TO GO) and of course, a couple of cyclists rounded the turn, and I didn't want to look like the guy who can't make it up the hill, so, god, I am so embarrassed to admit this, BUT I ACTUALLY MOUNTED THE RUSTY BIKE AND STARTED PEDALING.
After a humiliatingly loud SQUERAWWWK as the utterly oxidized cassette bent to the power of fight or flight, I actually made forward progress on two completely flat tires. Oh, god, the looks on those faces as they passed me. I swear to god one of them mouthed, 'DO YOU THINK IT'S ART?'
This was unsustainable. I got back off the bike, which was a wise move being as how the thing had no brake or shift cables, braking primarily a function of the aforementioned FLAT TIRES, and started pushing. 6.5 miles to go.
Please do not think I am lying when I tell you that my next sadistic bicycle scenario was that the goddamned thing was cursed. This bears repeating, because I am trying to make a point. I IMAGINED THAT I WAS PUSHING A CURSED BICYCLE. And no matter how ridiculous I told myself this concept was, there was nothing I could do to get it out of my head.
So two miles down the path, I gave in and rolled the bike into the brush. Not the brush where I removed it, of course, BECAUSE THAT IS SURELY WHERE ALL THE BODIES ARE.
And then I ran. And at one point, I looked behind me and I saw a man riding a bicycle. And I thought, 'HOW COME HE IS THE ONLY CYCLIST NOT WEARING A HELMET I'VE SEEN? WHAT CAN THAT MEAN? HE KNOWS!' And the man, who obviously didn't know anything, didn't make things any easier by deciding to ride just slow enough so that he would be behind me for something like 4 miles. Gah.
Did I mention that I was running with a giant camera in my hand? I played out multiple scenarios by which I could use it as a weapon (MAYBE YOU SHOULD JUST SHOW HIM YOUR RECENT PHOTOGRAPHS! ZING!). I even imagined being all cleverly non-violent and discharging the flash in the man's eyes just before he bashed my gourd in, but then remembered I am one of those snobby photogs who is adamantly against using flash under any circumstances, which apparently includes self-defense.
Ugh. This story is already too long, although it got funnier, trust me, and you should trust me about what is funny (THOUGH NOT WHAT IS CURSED) because I have completely lost my sense of humor, and that which tickles a humorless man must be funny, indeed.
Wow, I'm just re-reading this, and yes, apparently I HAVE lost my sense of humor, but at least my libido is gone as well. They went hand in hand, apparently. I guess it was a package deal.
It shames me to hit publish tonight. I won't do it.
Curses.
17 comments:
Humor and libido always go together, I guess. That's why dating profiles always insist that the other have a good "sense of humor." [wink wink]
A friend and I once abandoned a cross (made of 4x4 lumber, just like the Jesus kind) in the bushes near a river. It had a wheel on it. It was an instrument of silly religious zeal. We threw it in the bushes because our shoulders were sore and we weren't as devout as we had assumed we were the day before.
A year later we went and were surprised to find that it was still there. We retrieved it. A year later it was washed away in a flood and we never saw it again.
What's my point?
Exactly.
Hello, Brandon.
I abandoned a shopping cart on the side of a road once.
I never went back to see what happened to it.
I hope someone found it and gave it a good home.
Oh lord I must be in trouble. I thought this was freaking hilarious.
I like to think that I would have rescued the bike, taken it to a bike shop, and told the techs there that I plan to ride STP, and do they think it needs a tune-up? Maybe they could give me a few pointers? And in my imagination, that would be funny. Because my sense of humor is "special"-ized.
shari, i think you are on the right trek.
steph, this site is not responsible for loss of libido, though. i think i should add a dicslaimer.
NYCW, i'm pretty sure our local grocery store ONLY uses abandoned carts, so i'm sure it is fine.
scott, wow, washed away in a flood? noah way.
I kept waiting for the punchline, and in the end, only felt like I;d just been punched. No fair.
omg, did you read through the whole thing? there is a sort of twisted punchline in that, i suppose.
Think of it this way: you're just evenly distributing refuse around the forest. That way no one pile of refuse (read Bike AND flannel shirt) gets too big. They stay in manageable sizes (read Bike OR flannel shirt) for Mother nature to deal with.
Kinda like how New England states have been buying up used subway cars and throwing them in the oceans to promote reef building.
If you really loved nature you would have tossed your camera into the bushes too. Somewhere a homeless Dung Beetle wishes you had.
I don't know about your sense of humor, I thought this was pretty funny. As for your libido, that's between you and the Lord.
I don't believe you. I think this was a brilliant short story inspired by one of your thousands of random digital photographs. I know this because that's what I mean to do with my thousands of random digital photographs once I grow an imagination.
You haven't lost your sense of humor. What you've lost is your ability to judge it. It's better for us that way, anyways, so there's that.
Also, I don't think I've seen anyone use brackets, italics, and capitals as effectively as you. That's worth a first born at least.
I would have looked around more for human bones. A leg, maybe. The image of that rusty frame lying out there in the brush read in my head like the first few pages of a Stephen King scary story.
jodie, it felt very macabre, as if the bicycle was a metaphor for the soul-killing effects of giving up booze. it's a good thing i don't overthink this stuff, though.
peefer, i have to confess i learned all my bracket, italics and CAPS from Asia, so I can only take credit for my ability to steal and get away with it, (WHICH IS SORT OF THE MEANING OF THIS POST)
don, you notice I am including several photographs with each post. my images far outnumber my inspiration.
vahid, this is a dig for me screaming OH GOD, isn't it?
dustin, loving Mother Nature sounds incestuous. Wouldn't it lead to earth defects?
Brandon:
1. You didn't steal the bicycle; you gave it a good home (your rear-end).
2. Libido is never gone, it is just hiding within the endorphins that result from running 14 miles. I think they're one and the same.
3. Did you write the No Country For Old Men screenplay? I swear I thought the Cohen brothers wrote it . . .
leezer, i wouldn't necessarily call it a good home. i mean, it's in a pretty rough neighborhood. it's on a sewage line, no less.
this was hilarious and clever. don't kid yourself.
If I were ever to be a rusty old bicycle, I should think I would like to be that one.
God, if libido and miles are the same thing... I'm in trouble if I ever stop running. Leezer, tell me you were lying.
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