Moments like these.

Plague the mind. And you willingly, softly succumb.

Are fleeting. So you chase. You spin. You laugh and you grasp.

Come innocent. And you float, you drift with the warm, ebbing currents.

Moments like these are meant to be bathed in.

Moments like these -- a sweet, subtle drowning.

Moments like these are a sickness to which you want no cure.

Moments. Just like this.

Induction.

It's official. I have finally eaten shit on my bike. This is my induction to urban biking. I guess.

10:20 PM, riding downhill on Powell towards Market. A car is emergency parked on the right side of the street, blocking the only 1/3 of the street that is not covered by tram tracks.

God damn tracks better not fuck with me.
Well, I thought right. But I was wrong. They did fuck with me. I'm not sure if I simply zoned out, or didn't slow down enough. But there I went, front tire across the tram track at way too narrow of an angle. The tire slid in, caught, and as I lost my balance and got thrown towards the floor left-ways, I screamed "FUUUUCK" with such fervor I was convinced that the entire downtown district of San Francisco heard it. And if not it, the echoes.

As I lied there stunned for a few seconds that felt like minutes, a homeless guy ran across the street and bent by me. "Are you okay???"

"Yeah," I forced a smile, "these damn tracks."

"You really have to be careful, you know." His left hand held a panhandling cup. "Are you sure you're okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, thank you."

For a moment, I expected him to offhandedly ask me for some change. But he didn't. He reluctantly left me as I slowly pulled myself off of the gravel and slowly glided down the road.

As I rode home, I couldn't help but start laughing. First, out of the sheer adrenaline. I could've gotten hit by a car. I could've landed on my head. But I was back on my bike, riding. FINALLY, I thought. Finally. I finally ate shit. I've been waiting and semi-fearing for this day for so long. Then the staggered bursts of laughter of relief, incredulousness, and a weird sense of satisfaction.


Got home. Checked out the damage:

Minus the humongous piece of skin I peeled off my leggings, hip scrapes and a not-so-deep shin puncture wound.

Didn't have any antiseptic or rubbing alcohol, so I used what was available:

Yup. Smirnoff Green fucking Apple. It doesn't sting any less. Just smells worse.

Thanks to my corner liquor store, I was able to dress my wound:

Electrical tape --> Racing stripes

Ah.

Another epic monday.

Following my previous Epic Monday, today was another quite epically Monday Monday.

1) Having to deal with an English bank. Long distance.

You still suck. Even with your accent.

First of all, Europeans in general already suck at being efficient and having practical, common sense customer service. Take the time when I was in Paris, waiting at the ice skating rink in front of Hotel de Ville. The line for the skate rentals was maybe 8 persons long, but 15 minutes passed and nobody had moved an inch. Oh, why is that, Chieh? Well, you see, the lady manning the rentals booth decided to take a 15 minute smoke break and just LEFT with no replacement. And since she's French, and everyone else is French, they were all doing their oui oui, I'm le tired I don't vant to work so le hard nonsense. So I ended up waiting 20+ min to get some damn skates.
Anyway. 7:30 AM, I wake up, already disgruntled. I call Lloyd's. Let me first make it clear that I already hate dealing with Lloyds. If they're enough of a bitch to deal with when I lived in London, then it can only be that much better dealing with them from San Francisco with an 8-hour difference and crappy Skype transmission. Basically, it went like this:

"Hi, can I help you?"
"Hi I'm calling to close my account and discuss this charge I have posted to my account."
(repeat 3 times because they can't hear me)
"Can I have your password please."
*Gives password*
"I'm sorry that is incorrect."
"Okay, look, this account is over a year old and I just want to close it and discuss the fees so can we get around this somehow?"
"You'll have to call back tomorrow to discuss the fees ma'am as it is a bank holiday here."
"SO HOW ARE YOU TAKING MY CALL?"

I didn't actually blurb out the last sentence. I just kind of grunted, and said "Okay. Thanks." But seriously. Why are you, as the Bank representative, taking my call on a bank holiday to tell me you can't handle any bank-related issues. ????? BECAUSE YOU'RE ENGLISH. And you blokes are great at looking smart, being keen on gigs and getting pissed off pints but just can't handle customer service. Which is why you'd make me send a letter by mail including all my personal bank information to a PO box in the middle of bumfucking Isle of Man just to close my account.
Don't get me wrong, I love Europe and I love Europeans (the English included). They're great at being cultured and beautiful and making beautiful things. But they are just not practical people.

PS, I image searched "beautiful Europeans" and this came up:



2) Dicks.

Not penis, duh. But people who seem to lack common courtsey and annoy you.

They're really just douchey guidos, but I really like this picture.

So, having already had to miss my early shuttle to make my call to Lloyds, I had to take the 9:00 AM shuttle. When the shuttle arrives, I spent like 10 minutes helping to make sure this guy's bike could fit behind mine in the lower compartment. By that time, everyone else had boarded the shuttle, and I let him board before me. I get on last, and it turns out, the shuttle is full. Some other guy decides to be awfully nice and volunteers to take the next shuttle because "these two have their bikes down there." The guy who I was helping quickly plopped into the newly empty seat and I had no choice but to get off, fetch my bike to wait for the next shuttle, also realizing that the guy had forced his bike in so hard that he had gotten bike grease all over my white bar tape and knocked loose my brakes. Thanks, asshole. Dick. Asshole. Then, as we stand there joking about, "Oh I hope it doesn't rain because that'll really suck especially because I don't have a bike lock with me so I can't go anywhere," it starts pouring. We manage to find some shelter under a MUNI bus stop. Then, previously mentioned nice man comes out of a cafe and hands me a bag of banana bread. "If it's any consolation," he said. Thank you, bread man. Then we went on to talk about hipsters in the Mission, Nepal, bike theft and how lame UFC fights are.

So those are the only two things on my Epic Monday list today, but two of those are enough for me. English banks and dicks on the same day is like getting punched in the face and balls at the same time. By a kid. Or so I'd imagine. If I were a man.

Here's an awesome rant for you to top it off.