I like to ride my bike.

I'm so good at being so bad.
The pessimist. The hypocryte. The anti-hero.
Yes, sirs and madams... I ride a fixed gear.

I ride without a helmet, down the wrong way on one way streets. Dead of night with a sole LED cutting between me and the darkness. Earbuds in, Pinhead Gunpowder blasting. My own damn fault, I'd assume. Not hard to get sucked into any sort of mess in this town. There was the one boy who broke me of the saddle years ago. Technically, two. One got me on it, another got me down. The first never had his shit together enough to even formulate what normal adult relationship would have been (the only kind I stand for). The second, well that was through no fault of his own... I decided to hop off the bike when I realized testosterone and sexual tension were not a good combination in close quarters. No need to hurt any feelings or feed any egos... there was enough of that to go around.

Now the tides have turned, sun set, page turned et cetera, ad nauseum. I'm back on two wheels and it feels like I never left. The last time, my bike was clumsy, slow, and didn't work quite right. Sort of like the boy who bought it for me. This time around my steed is lighter, more efficient, and fun as shit. Sort of like the boy I got it from...

I'm having some problems assimilating to the culture. Technical terms and jargon aren't an issue. Research and love for the game will always handle that, regardless of what the new situation is. Once again it is the social interactions that leave me speechless. With other hobbies it was never a problem. Hide behind a pen, a computer screen, a guitar, a microphone. Slink away into your Fortress of Solitude and create your art. But what happens when your art is all around you? How do you get the assholes out of your studio?

I'll let you know once I figure that shit out.