I picked up my van from the mechanic. It's all fixed up, and I got the inspection stickers. Dirt cheap. This mechanic is America's best kept secret. God, it makes me happy. I only got two tickets for lack of inspection. I'm a whiz at procrastination.
I hopped on my bicycle and rode the eight miles to pick up the van. Traffic stopped on Broad Street as a busted cyclist was put in a stretcher. Something was broken. His Schwinn was destroyed. I inched through the mess and got a look at the man in shock and his bicycle folded in half. The seat stays were ripped right off the cluster and the heap laid there as they wheeled him away.
I drove right to Kristin's. It's fall, fuckers. This is beautiful. I drove out to the suburbs where people carve pumpkins, listen to music, and smoke weed out of an acorn squash. I want this girl in my bed always.