Sorry for not existing recently. I was superbusy** this past week. But you know what’s even worse than a travel blog? The travel blog of someone who goes to boring places. You don’t want to hear that shit. Or maybe that would be a really good first step of a shitty travel blogger– start blogging about really dull places so they can never just complain about lines or natural beauty or use the words “Obligatory Selfie.” I want to read the travel blog that goes, “This place sucks. I’m leaving.” I think I’ll write that blog someday.
Fun update on how I’m losing at sibling rivalry: My big brother casually revealed to me that he has this blog about Survivor whose posts receive thousands of hits. Apparently he knows how to direct traffic to his Blogspot from Pinterest and photoshops fun cover photos that may or may not also be memes. He gets comments and followers and people apparently appreciate it and he didn’t even have to send the link of his blog to everyone in the family with the caption “PLEASE READ MY BLOG PLEASE” to try to create some sort of readership so that the Stats*** aren’t abysmal. But I’m not whining. This blog is for me and the improvement of my voice and maybe Colin should just grow up and stop trying to compare himself to me because we’re not even comparable and why can’t we all just get along and WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS BE BETTER THAN ME?****
Fingers on rubber handlebars make school worth doing. That red bike, no longer covered with duct tape, is the partner that stood by me and under me throughout the fall’s academic failings, the winter’s endless helltunnel of weather, and the spring’s Cabot Assassin chasings and fleeings. The beautiful bike that rolled into summer unable to slow down because it only had a weak front brake. On it, I learned how to maneuver the streets of Cambridge, climbing on and off sidewalks and one-way streets and almost killing countless tourists. It was the foundation of a year. It was the only one who knew where I was when no one else did. When I needed to be alone, it came along for the ride and didn’t ask questions. Even on rainy days and hints of snow, it waited outside my door to just to run to class and share the blame for my tardiness. This one time I left it where I shouldn’t have and it disappeared and my heart broke. And then a nice security guard told me he was taking care of it and we were reunited and I had never loved it more. I haven’t thought of a name yet, but I don’t feel like I need to. It’s neither a boy nor a girl, though definitely has a manlier aesthetic and I’d like to think that it’s my primary boyfriend sometimes. But it’s an it. It’s Bike. I don’t need to quirkify it or personify it. Does one personify Freedom? Only in metaphorical paintings and patriotic poems.
Clickclicklicklicklicklicikkclicklcikclick CRUNCH whiirrrrr.
*Mom and Aunty Kristin
***Yeah, I can see how many people read these. See (*)
****Cut to a poem I wrote in 4th grade entitled “WHY? WHY? WHY?” about how our parents love him more.*****
*****Don’t worry. As far as I know, our parents love us equally and we had a lovely childhood and we get along quite well. I’m sleeping on his couch in Dallas right now and bought him cacti yesterday to decorate his new apartment. I wrote my college essay about how much I admire his humble courage and how I learned to stop competing against him.