Every Monday I free-write whatever comes to mind.
I can’t promise you quality. I can’t promise you the feels. I can’t promise you anything, really. Except that it will always be raw, it will always be unedited, it will always be all over the place, and it will always be me. Oh, and it will always be done in my pajamas. Always. Because that’s how I roll.
Hmmm. What to talk about today…
How about… I don’t know… motorcycles?
I went to Mom and Dad’s house for dinner last night. My aunt was over there. “Who’s the dummy who drove the motorcycle over here?”
I looked at her and bit my tongue. Who *rode* that bike, I wanted to say.
You don’t drive a motorcycle.
I also wondered if she remembered six months ago how she repeatedly told me I was stupid, stupid, stupid for getting a bike. It was the last time I saw her. Apparently she didn’t remember her rant, probably because she’s given it a few times to other people since.
“So you admit you’re dumb!” she said when she saw me nod, acknowledging that the big fat murderous Harley sitting in the driveway was mine.
“I admit that you think I’m dumb,” I said trying not to be annoyed. It was admittedly a super lame comeback. I could have done better.
“WELL, YOU’RE DUMB! YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!” Again I bit my tongue. I really didn’t want to get into it with her. I learned long ago that there are certain people who just can’t be educated about motorcycle safety and actual motorcycle statistics. They have it in their heads that anyone who rides a motorcycle is signing his own death warrant.
I don’t get it.