twelve long months on the lam

I came home thoroughly prepared to write all about The Lance Armstrong Effect and how hot, hot heat can be the difference between life and death, and then, as I pulled into my garage, I stared in front of the headlights.

Something was not right, but it took me a few minutes to figure out what was not right. And just like that, it hit me: my mountain bike, bike of two flat tires and no rear suspension, bike which I have flown off of on more than one occasion, was gone. Nothing else was taken, not that there is much else you would want to take from my garage. But also, there was no sign that the garage had been broken into. That was the creepy part. So, now, I suppose my car could be stolen if whoever took my bike decides to strike again.

I called my relic of a landlord to tell him about it. After initially feeling a little badly about it, he started in with the well, you know, I am renting you that garage for a song. I was close to replying well, I am only living in this crack shack because you are renting it to me for a song, but decided not to say anything with all these bizarre feelings welling up in me.

Every once in a while, I want to move out of this place into a grown-up apartment, and certainly, incidents like this add to that. On the other hand, I love my neighborhood, I love the lack of work associated with not moving. And I keep telling myself this is temporary anyway. But then again, temporary is a state of mind- I've been saying this place was temporary for a long time now.