Can't take it with you.

So they say. Yet everyone keeps collecting. Though these days, it appears we're collecting debts, to accompany the things that own us.

I feel like I have nothing to say. Mainly because through some miracle (or there truly is a god, and he's evidently done pissing on my fuckin' parade) I haven't had any major impacts with various objects, including but not limited to car doors, cars in general, FedEx or UPS trucks, or the occasional pedestrian.

It could also be that I've managed to learn how to navigate these faulty streets like an old pro...

Then again, it could be that I've finally named my bike: ChupeCabra. A.K.A. Sucks Goats, for those of you that aren't Spanish-inclined, like myself. I actually don't know for sure that's what it means, since my Spanish is worse than my driving. I do think Chupe means suck, or all them piezas back in prison were telling people to do something else with their dicks. Which, might be the case, how the fuck would I know? I mean, hell, that's why I didn't get any pictogram shit stenciled into my flesh - I'd be afraid that some vicious translator would paste "stupid fucking jew" in chinese for the tat artist, instead of "counter culture warrior" or whatever.

Nothing worse than having "stupid fucking jew" tatted anywhere on your body, since the little dirty secret is that jews aren't supposed to get tats in the first place. But I'm totally digressing from where I was going (like I ever know that particular piece of trivia).

So I cut my hair, and donated it to Locks of Love, under the name of DPA. I did this for two reasons: one, I really do believe in trying to help out, and two, I find it funny to think that DPA will be, in all likelihood, the first nonprofit organization to donate hair to Locks of Love. Aren't legal fictitions weird? I think so, but these days, I'm not paid to think, I'm paid to perform menial tasks that are required in the fight against the war on drugs.

I know, you're all crying a goddamn river. All three of you. I feel surly tonight, hence the exasperated tone of this blog.

The sad part is that I miss the accidents. I wasn't getting flats when I was in accidents. The accidents have been replaced by a weird tendency for my bike to suck metal objects into the tires. To date, I've got two staples (yes, fucking staples) and two nails (one miniscule, without a head, the other more of a thumbtack). That's been the past three weeks. It's gotten to the point where I can fix a flat in under five minutes now, which is great, considering I'm supposed to let the fucking rubber cement dry for five before applying the patch in the first place.

And yes, I've finally accepted the fact that I totally fucked up. When I hit that pedestrian, I really should have gotten her number, hulking menace at her side be damned. What's a little injury, without a little sumpin' on the side, right?