It reminds me of those weeks I spent, riding around with Nancy on a stolen Harro she bought for like, $6,000 or something stupid. It would happen on the way to one of those black-tie events at the 7-11. There was always some fantastic ogre or landshark, or a baby cheeseburger sitting on a trashcan, or, like, in the bushes next to their front door; arms and hands craned out under our noses, mindlessly feeding us bits of scrap metal and asking if we've seen Repo Man yet (duh). Nancy always kept a little for "Ronnie" but I never saw him. We'd walk back and forth, side to side. Sometimes jumping too. And when the cracks of cold would start to seep into our skin, we always knew it was time to get on the bike, take an alley, and be on our merry way looking for chalk and beans. That day was the best summer of my life.

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