An open letter to the jerk who stole my bike:

To the person who stole my bike from my balcony whilst I was asleep:
  1. I hate you.
  2. Motherfucker.
  3. How could you? Did you know that I don’t just recreationally ride my bike and that my bike is the only means of consistent and reliable transportation—besides my feet which sometimes hurt after a long day’s work—I have in this transportation-challenged city in which I live.
  4. Fuck you.
  5. I was just trying to live an environmentally conscious life, leave as small a carbon footprint as I possibly could and then you came along and screwed that all up. Not to mention that I have to ride the stupid bus now.
  6. Did you know I hate the bus?
  7. Why do you hate me?
  8. Did you know that I had to go to Sears to get that bike? Fucking SEARS! The last time I went to Sears before that was to take embarrassing photos with my family when I was a fat, bespectacled child. The photographers made me fold my hands and tilt my head to the side, smile when I hated my teeth. They documented my fat stage. Did you know I was reminded of that trauma as I walked into Sears to buy that bike that you so easily stole from me?
  9. How did you scale the fence to get to my bike anyway, twinkletoes? The front door is locked and there are spikes on the gate. I’m going to tell my landlord to put poison on the spikes. And electrify them, too. Let’s see if you get past that next time.
  10. Are you spiderman?
  11. Are you addicted to drugs? Chances are you are a big time TE-CA-TO. Did you sell my bike for drugs? I hope not. I hope at least you are riding it around now and feeling the wind in your dirty, stinky, matted-down hair.
  12. Have you noticed that the back breaks don’t work so well? I hope you learned the hard way.
  13. I really, sincerely hope you didn’t peak into my window as I slept because it’s already creepy enough that you magically got to my balcony in the first place. But if you peeped in on me while I was sleeping, that’s extra creepy. That means you were like six inches away from my face.
  14. Don’t ever, ever come to my balcony again. Except to knock on my door and politely ask for my forgiveness. Actually, no. Stay the fuck away from my balcony.
  15. I miss my bike. He (yes, I’m using male pronouns. I’m allowed, okay? I’m grieving) was like the boyfriend I never had. He let me mount him whenever I wanted and never complained. He took me wherever I wanted to go, whenever I wanted. He didn’t mind when I got all sweaty on top of him. His name was Sergio. Damn baby, come back…
  16. How low could you get? Stealing bikes? I mean, come ON. If you’re gonna steal something, steal makeup from Walgreens (I do it all the time) or spices from the supermarket (I also do that) or nails and screws from Home Depot (I don’t even use them but God they’re just so small and loose and feel so nice in my pocket). Why are you gonna steal from regular people? (oh right, I forgot number 11).
  17. I feel a ghost pain in my vagina, where the seat would be making me slightly uncomfortable if I were to take a long ride.
  18. Did you leave the dead baby bird still in its egg in the place where my bike used to be, you sick fuck? Not only do you steal my bike, pero me hiciste brujería para colmo! WTF! I really hope I don't have permanent bad luck in love or some shit like that. No bike and no man! Damn, you really know how to fuck with a girl.
  19. What am I supposed to do with this dead baby bird now? I can’t throw it away. It’s tiny, undeveloped mouth is open as if you killed it right as it was going to tell on you. Like right as it breathed in to say, “oooooo, I see you and I’m gonna tell Raquel” you killed it. In cold blood. The blood is on the egg.
  20. When I get a new bike, I’m never EVER gonna let you ride on the handle bars.


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