Well, here we are: the last night in London. Fuck, it came quick, but that's what everyone (including me) said would happen. I guess I never realized how quickly it would come. Those last two sentences are just absolutely rife with sexual undertones...or is that just me?
One of the most common question I've been asked in the last few days is some variant of the following: are you sad? Answer: yes and no. Today was my last day of work at UBS for what I can only assume is forever. I have no prospect of continuing my employment for UBS in the States in the next few days/weeks/months, so the only logical conclusion is this chapter is closed and will stay closed. Sad? Not really. There are people I have met in the past year I will certainly miss, but those who matter won't really be going away; it'll just be months of potential planning to meet up which will eventually fall through and odds are I won't see a single one of them again. Always the optimist, I know. I do have some faith in a select few, though.
So, no...I'm not sad. I'm not really sure how to express what's going on right now, honestly. I'm at a loss for words. I knew this would happen eventually if I talked or wrote enough. At this point, it doesn't seem real. I know I'm leaving tomorrow and I know I'm going to have to say goodbye to some people who have become invaluable in my life. I also know I don't know how I'm going to react. The only solace is I know it has to happen and I can't do a thing to stop it. Every person I've grown close to over the past few weeks/months/year are from different parts of the world. Most are in the US which will make a meet potentially possible, but we're all going to be beyond busy the next few weeks/months and once we get around to it, it'll just be a “well...I guess I could, but why put in that much effort? Seems like a lot of work.” As with everything, time will tell.
Anyway, enough of that bullshit and more of the cynicism you come to expect from this page. Last night, I was at an event cleverly titled “leaving drinks” for a friend of mine. What happens at this event, you may ask? Well, drinks are clearly involved. The reason for the occasion? They're leaving! I know...I was stuck on that one for a while, too. It just so happened that this event was host to just about every person I have come to meet and loathe for the last fifty-ish weeks or longer. There are some I haven't seen or spoken to in months and there are others who I was friendly with previously where that friendliness does not exist anymore. I'm torn up about it, I swear. However, whenever there can be drinking and awkwardness involved...well, fuckin' eh, count me in.
I can sum this night up in just a few sentences: imagine being at a house party complete with three keg stations. In attendance are about two hundred people; one hundred and seventy of which you can't stand while the other thirty are absolutely shit-hammered while you're sober and trying to get to their level. Oh, and two keg stations just dried up.
Following the story so far? Ok, so here's what happens: you end up getting stuck in line with about a fucking million people you would rather have rusty, dirty knives shoved up your pee-hole than speak to, let alone be near in general. Sober. Fun, right? Here's what you can expect from this scenario: fake interactions with those you hate, some getting pissed you're ignoring them even though you've spoken maybe two words to them in your entire life, and fantastic over-the-top reconciliations from those you used to be friends with based on their having new people around them so they can save face and not look like a fuck/dick/cunt/bitch. Where are the people you actually care about, want to hang out with, talk to and see? Nowhere to be found...tumbleweeds. Get me the fuck out of here. Now.
Short story long: I left early after saying my goodbyes to the people I came to see. Shocking, I know...
So it's my last night...I'm done packing...all the flatmates are out of the house...and I'm sitting here contemplating the previous year in this fucked up thing we call life. Seems fitting, I think. This will be my last post written in London...next time you hear from me will be when I'm on US soil for the first time since April. I've said it before and I'll say it again...life's a fucked up ride. Hold tight, ride it the best you can (there's those goddamn sexual undertones again!) and see where you end up.
It's been a great year and for those who have stuck with me for this long, for those who have read occasionally, and for those of you who might be new readers, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. Here's to the next one.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Yeah, I Didn't Die
First things first...obviously, I survived Amsterdam. Sucks for you, that just means more pointless rambling and thousands of words you never wanted to read in the first place. But here you are anyway because I have a mesmerizing way of making you come back, time and time again, even though you really don't know why you click the link in the first place. Sucker...
My brief thoughts on Amsterdam:
1. It is fucking expensive. I was there for a little over two days and spent well over two hundred Euros and really have nothing to show for it. Before you ask, no – I did not buy a hooker and I did not buy any pot. As far as you know...
Seriously...ridiculously expensive. I also did not have a single drink bought for me...apparently I'm not the kind of guy gay dudes go for...oh well...
2. The easiest way to describe Amsterdam: think of Vegas on meth, coke, and ecstasy and throw in an alcoholic blackout session and you're getting pretty close. Then add hookers. Yep...that's Amsterdam.
3. Walking around Amsterdam was very confusing for me in many ways.
- First, there are so many fucking canals it makes it nearly impossible to know where you are without a map. Even with a map, it's pretty fucking difficult (as I found out Saturday night/Sunday morning) and as soon as the destination is in sight, it's like a ray of sunshine and rainbows and boners. I can't tell you how happy I was when I finally made it to the hostel on Sunday morning...I nearly wept because I was so happy after being lost for as long as I was.
- Second, that city is a total mind fuck for a man (or, let's face it...boy masquerading as man) because of the sheer amount of prostitutes in the red light district. Walking down a street or an alley is simply mind-boggling because of the nature of the profession. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. Countless women standing in doorways showing off as much as possible in order to get you to drop your pants and what I can only assume is an obscene amount of money.
Between them knocking on the inside of the glass to get attention, the “come hither” finger curl, and the “fuck me” eyes, my mind could simply not process it. Call me old fashioned, but it takes more than a skimpy outfit, a sexy look and money exchanging hands to get this kid's attention. Okay, not much more...but still – a guy's got his principles. One of those principles just happens to be not paying for sex.
Enough about Amsterdam...I survived in one piece and of relative sound body/mind – just a little light in the wallet. It's vacation...that will happen.
Dammit! I always fucking do this...I totally had something else to write about after I was done with Amsterdam. Oh, got it!
London Riots:
Again, I lost what I wanted to say...I swear it was pointless and redundant, but I guess you'll just have to settle for me randomly rambling again. Basically, the riots aren't near the area I'm in at all and everywhere closed early because there were rumors of the riots coming near Old Street. Which resulted in my gym closing early, which in turn resulted in me being not happy and unfulfilled.
I really don't know what I'm talking about, but for what it's worth, it's really stupid that something like this has spun so out of control. I understand the reason for getting so pissed (for those who don't know, read the news instead of hearing my unsubstantiated claims) but it simply escalated to the point where the police could not handle it. Which made it spin even further out of control. Also, the looters and people setting the fires are complete fucks...we don't live in Columbus, Ohio, people.
Anyway, I'm pretty much done here, so do whatever you want now.
My brief thoughts on Amsterdam:
1. It is fucking expensive. I was there for a little over two days and spent well over two hundred Euros and really have nothing to show for it. Before you ask, no – I did not buy a hooker and I did not buy any pot. As far as you know...
Seriously...ridiculously expensive. I also did not have a single drink bought for me...apparently I'm not the kind of guy gay dudes go for...oh well...
2. The easiest way to describe Amsterdam: think of Vegas on meth, coke, and ecstasy and throw in an alcoholic blackout session and you're getting pretty close. Then add hookers. Yep...that's Amsterdam.
3. Walking around Amsterdam was very confusing for me in many ways.
- First, there are so many fucking canals it makes it nearly impossible to know where you are without a map. Even with a map, it's pretty fucking difficult (as I found out Saturday night/Sunday morning) and as soon as the destination is in sight, it's like a ray of sunshine and rainbows and boners. I can't tell you how happy I was when I finally made it to the hostel on Sunday morning...I nearly wept because I was so happy after being lost for as long as I was.
- Second, that city is a total mind fuck for a man (or, let's face it...boy masquerading as man) because of the sheer amount of prostitutes in the red light district. Walking down a street or an alley is simply mind-boggling because of the nature of the profession. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. Countless women standing in doorways showing off as much as possible in order to get you to drop your pants and what I can only assume is an obscene amount of money.
Between them knocking on the inside of the glass to get attention, the “come hither” finger curl, and the “fuck me” eyes, my mind could simply not process it. Call me old fashioned, but it takes more than a skimpy outfit, a sexy look and money exchanging hands to get this kid's attention. Okay, not much more...but still – a guy's got his principles. One of those principles just happens to be not paying for sex.
Enough about Amsterdam...I survived in one piece and of relative sound body/mind – just a little light in the wallet. It's vacation...that will happen.
Dammit! I always fucking do this...I totally had something else to write about after I was done with Amsterdam. Oh, got it!
London Riots:
Again, I lost what I wanted to say...I swear it was pointless and redundant, but I guess you'll just have to settle for me randomly rambling again. Basically, the riots aren't near the area I'm in at all and everywhere closed early because there were rumors of the riots coming near Old Street. Which resulted in my gym closing early, which in turn resulted in me being not happy and unfulfilled.
I really don't know what I'm talking about, but for what it's worth, it's really stupid that something like this has spun so out of control. I understand the reason for getting so pissed (for those who don't know, read the news instead of hearing my unsubstantiated claims) but it simply escalated to the point where the police could not handle it. Which made it spin even further out of control. Also, the looters and people setting the fires are complete fucks...we don't live in Columbus, Ohio, people.
Anyway, I'm pretty much done here, so do whatever you want now.
Friday, August 5, 2011
This Might Be My Last Post
Okay, kids...this might be my last post.
Before you get all teary eyed from sheer joy in never having to suffer through my ramblings again, I feel like I should explain. Tomorrow will begin my last trip in Europe as I have less than twenty days left in the UK. Since I have precisely zero days of vacation left and am rapidly running out of the pitiful stipend this company pays on a monthly basis, I simply don't have the time, finances or patience for any more visits to European countries. Therefore, it was decided a few weeks ago that my last trip this year would be to Amsterdam, Netherlands.
The reason this might be my last post ever is because I'm fully expecting to die this weekend. We leave tomorrow morning and are scheduled to return Monday evening, but I'm fully expecting to miss my return flight since I'll be dead. I have heard many stories about Amsterdam, but almost all of them involve painful amounts of alcohol and some other stuff as well. Before we continue, I feel like I should make one thing clear: I am not going to Amsterdam because a certain substance is widely rumored to be legal there. In fact, I have a very negative attitude toward this substance. I have never been interested in it and I don't think it's “cool” to brag about how high you are or have been in the past. This might be a surprise to some, but for those of you who know me, it really shouldn't be since I'm usually quite vocal in my opinion (shocking, I know). The reason I'm going is because I want my last trip to be as fun as possible and this seems like the right city to end on. Not only that, but I feel it would be socially irresponsible of me to be this close in proximity and not make a visit. It just seems...I don't know...it seems like you kinda have to go.
So why am I going to die? I don't really know...I just feel like it's a probability. I have no evidence to support my premonition much like the majority of my feelings and thoughts, but I feel like I have a pretty decent track record of my predictions. Ok, probably alcohol poisoning. Happy? So here we are, mere hours from my death...and I feel like I've given life a pretty decent ride. If it ends here, I'm good with it...I've done a lot and I can't point to anything I would say I regret, so I feel like that's a solid indicator of a good time.
On a side note, I was recently informed this weekend is gay pride weekend in Amsterdam (not that there's anything wrong with that), so that tidbit should make it even more interesting. Much like the majority of men in this world, I have never been in the circumstance where a woman who was interested in sexing me up buy drinks all night in an effort to seal the deal. As we all know, this is the man's job. That being said, I'm not above accepting some free drinks to make up for the hundreds (okay, dozens) of drinks I've bought for women in unsuccessful efforts to make me a tiny bit more attractive (let's be honest here, you can't polish a turd). Let me be clear here: I'm not expecting people to buy me drinks because that would be narcissistic and completely out of character (haha...riiight), but I will accept them without question. Before you get all judgmental, let's explore this for a bit. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this sentence come out of a woman's mouth:
“He's buying me drinks, so of course I'm going to keep talking to him. What? Sleep with him? Haha...don't be silly.”
Yes, I realize how sexist it sounds. No, I don't care. Because it's absolutely accurate. And none of you can dispute it. It's a widely accepted fact that men buy women drinks because they want to get down. If women have a problem with it, stop taking free drinks from strange men. Whoa...when did this get so serious? Ok...think of a dick joke...quick! Shit...I'm all out.
Anyway, due to the dubious amounts of alcohol I'm expecting to consume in the next 72 hours, along with the sheer dumbassery I expect to partake in, I pretty much expect to die. My liver will give out, my kidneys will quit on me, or I might get stabbed in the neck. Either way, I fully expect my clock to expire thus negating the rest of my travel plans and life expectancy. Like I said, it was a fun ride...and I very much appreciate all two of you who shared this experience with me.
By the way, in case anyone asks: Don't waste your money on a funeral or any bullshit like that. Just throw a gigantic kegger and pour one out for your ol' buddy Rufus. Oh, and Justin too...he'd like that. Also, make sure to hire The Used to play the wake...they might need the gig.
Later, fuckers...it's been real.
Before you get all teary eyed from sheer joy in never having to suffer through my ramblings again, I feel like I should explain. Tomorrow will begin my last trip in Europe as I have less than twenty days left in the UK. Since I have precisely zero days of vacation left and am rapidly running out of the pitiful stipend this company pays on a monthly basis, I simply don't have the time, finances or patience for any more visits to European countries. Therefore, it was decided a few weeks ago that my last trip this year would be to Amsterdam, Netherlands.
The reason this might be my last post ever is because I'm fully expecting to die this weekend. We leave tomorrow morning and are scheduled to return Monday evening, but I'm fully expecting to miss my return flight since I'll be dead. I have heard many stories about Amsterdam, but almost all of them involve painful amounts of alcohol and some other stuff as well. Before we continue, I feel like I should make one thing clear: I am not going to Amsterdam because a certain substance is widely rumored to be legal there. In fact, I have a very negative attitude toward this substance. I have never been interested in it and I don't think it's “cool” to brag about how high you are or have been in the past. This might be a surprise to some, but for those of you who know me, it really shouldn't be since I'm usually quite vocal in my opinion (shocking, I know). The reason I'm going is because I want my last trip to be as fun as possible and this seems like the right city to end on. Not only that, but I feel it would be socially irresponsible of me to be this close in proximity and not make a visit. It just seems...I don't know...it seems like you kinda have to go.
So why am I going to die? I don't really know...I just feel like it's a probability. I have no evidence to support my premonition much like the majority of my feelings and thoughts, but I feel like I have a pretty decent track record of my predictions. Ok, probably alcohol poisoning. Happy? So here we are, mere hours from my death...and I feel like I've given life a pretty decent ride. If it ends here, I'm good with it...I've done a lot and I can't point to anything I would say I regret, so I feel like that's a solid indicator of a good time.
On a side note, I was recently informed this weekend is gay pride weekend in Amsterdam (not that there's anything wrong with that), so that tidbit should make it even more interesting. Much like the majority of men in this world, I have never been in the circumstance where a woman who was interested in sexing me up buy drinks all night in an effort to seal the deal. As we all know, this is the man's job. That being said, I'm not above accepting some free drinks to make up for the hundreds (okay, dozens) of drinks I've bought for women in unsuccessful efforts to make me a tiny bit more attractive (let's be honest here, you can't polish a turd). Let me be clear here: I'm not expecting people to buy me drinks because that would be narcissistic and completely out of character (haha...riiight), but I will accept them without question. Before you get all judgmental, let's explore this for a bit. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this sentence come out of a woman's mouth:
“He's buying me drinks, so of course I'm going to keep talking to him. What? Sleep with him? Haha...don't be silly.”
Yes, I realize how sexist it sounds. No, I don't care. Because it's absolutely accurate. And none of you can dispute it. It's a widely accepted fact that men buy women drinks because they want to get down. If women have a problem with it, stop taking free drinks from strange men. Whoa...when did this get so serious? Ok...think of a dick joke...quick! Shit...I'm all out.
Anyway, due to the dubious amounts of alcohol I'm expecting to consume in the next 72 hours, along with the sheer dumbassery I expect to partake in, I pretty much expect to die. My liver will give out, my kidneys will quit on me, or I might get stabbed in the neck. Either way, I fully expect my clock to expire thus negating the rest of my travel plans and life expectancy. Like I said, it was a fun ride...and I very much appreciate all two of you who shared this experience with me.
By the way, in case anyone asks: Don't waste your money on a funeral or any bullshit like that. Just throw a gigantic kegger and pour one out for your ol' buddy Rufus. Oh, and Justin too...he'd like that. Also, make sure to hire The Used to play the wake...they might need the gig.
Later, fuckers...it's been real.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Alcohol + Awkward Situations = Hilarity
Holy shit! Two posts in three days?! Yep...better watch out, this might become a regular thing...and then you're all fucked.
Really, this shouldn't be a shock to anyone, but I've been drinking again (gasp!) and I have some thoughts on what just happened in the previous 6 hours. For the dense folks in the crowd (and new readers...could it be?!), the past 11+ months have seen me in an entirely different country than I am used to, living in London, UK (I swear, it's not a brag...this place kind of sucks) and working at an investment bank (sounds way more prestigious than it really is) while scraping a living and counting my pennies to survive. Tonight marked the celebration known cleverly as “leaving dinner” for the program I'm involved with and will be the last time I see or speak to 90% of the people I've come to loathe for the last year-ish of my life.
The point of this entire entry is the wonderful powers of alcohol. Inserted in the right situation (read: any) and consumed in moderation (excess), it makes nearly every situation tolerable. I had every intention of skipping this dinner since I have almost zero desire to see anyone in this program again, but I was persuaded otherwise by the promise of free booze. Turns out, the free booze was shitty wine (which I absolutely hate) and the only other option was a “half price” happy hour which featured prices one would only encounter in strip clubs of the classiest design. A regular bottle of beer cost a stout 2.40 GBP (roughly 4.00 USD) at half price. You're goddamn right I went straight for the wine with a hard and heavy fury.
Now, granted I'm pretty well off at this point, and there are a few people I do actually enjoy hanging out with who are scattered about...but for the most part I want nothing to do with anyone at this entire gathering. Don't try telling this to Rufus (my blacked out counterpart) because he's a fucking social butterfly. Just in case you're keeping track, a handful beers along with a few glasses of wine with no food equals Rufus. He doesn't give a fuck about anyone and will say any and everything that comes to his pretty little head. Suffice to say I had a bit of fun tonight with ol' Rufus' help and I can't imagine a scenario where they'll be sorry to see me go. The feeling is most definitely mutual at this point.
Now that I'm a few paragraphs into this entry, I forget what I was meaning to say. I don't remember saying anything in particular that would have pissed anyone off or that was especially inappropriate (unfortunately), but I do remember spending way too much money on overpriced alcohol. Those last few sentences make me sad...what good is a night out without multiple people absolutely infuriated with you over something you may not remember?
The lesson here is simple, as always: alcohol + horrible people + awkward situations = hilarity. Follow that simple formula and you can never go wrong. Trust me...would I lie to you?
Really, this shouldn't be a shock to anyone, but I've been drinking again (gasp!) and I have some thoughts on what just happened in the previous 6 hours. For the dense folks in the crowd (and new readers...could it be?!), the past 11+ months have seen me in an entirely different country than I am used to, living in London, UK (I swear, it's not a brag...this place kind of sucks) and working at an investment bank (sounds way more prestigious than it really is) while scraping a living and counting my pennies to survive. Tonight marked the celebration known cleverly as “leaving dinner” for the program I'm involved with and will be the last time I see or speak to 90% of the people I've come to loathe for the last year-ish of my life.
The point of this entire entry is the wonderful powers of alcohol. Inserted in the right situation (read: any) and consumed in moderation (excess), it makes nearly every situation tolerable. I had every intention of skipping this dinner since I have almost zero desire to see anyone in this program again, but I was persuaded otherwise by the promise of free booze. Turns out, the free booze was shitty wine (which I absolutely hate) and the only other option was a “half price” happy hour which featured prices one would only encounter in strip clubs of the classiest design. A regular bottle of beer cost a stout 2.40 GBP (roughly 4.00 USD) at half price. You're goddamn right I went straight for the wine with a hard and heavy fury.
Now, granted I'm pretty well off at this point, and there are a few people I do actually enjoy hanging out with who are scattered about...but for the most part I want nothing to do with anyone at this entire gathering. Don't try telling this to Rufus (my blacked out counterpart) because he's a fucking social butterfly. Just in case you're keeping track, a handful beers along with a few glasses of wine with no food equals Rufus. He doesn't give a fuck about anyone and will say any and everything that comes to his pretty little head. Suffice to say I had a bit of fun tonight with ol' Rufus' help and I can't imagine a scenario where they'll be sorry to see me go. The feeling is most definitely mutual at this point.
Now that I'm a few paragraphs into this entry, I forget what I was meaning to say. I don't remember saying anything in particular that would have pissed anyone off or that was especially inappropriate (unfortunately), but I do remember spending way too much money on overpriced alcohol. Those last few sentences make me sad...what good is a night out without multiple people absolutely infuriated with you over something you may not remember?
The lesson here is simple, as always: alcohol + horrible people + awkward situations = hilarity. Follow that simple formula and you can never go wrong. Trust me...would I lie to you?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Rules Don't Apply to Bicyclists
Okay, we're starting this way off topic, but my elation was just at a daily high and then squashed in the span of three minutes. What I was going to start this entry with was something along the lines of: “in this moment of time, for me, there are few things that make me happier than walking into a roommate-less flat.” For approximately three to four minutes, I was bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet like a spastic rapper at the thought that right now I am alone in this residence. Sweet, intoxicating solitude...but alas, it was not to last. Not ten seconds after I sit down to write this entry, one of the roommates struts in to ruin my happiness. Oh well...there's always hope for tomorrow.
Now, on to the meat of this entry: I hate bicyclists. I'm not exactly sure where I first heard this little anecdote, and I'm probably totally butchering it (I'm para-phrasing, here), but here it is: in regards to usage of roads and sidewalks, motorists hate pedestrians, pedestrians hate motorists, but fucking everybody hates bicyclists. If anyone knows exactly where this came from, let me know so I can properly credit this person/entity.
Anyway, from what I can tell, the rules do not apply to bicyclists in London. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about bicycle laws in this city or country. However, I'm pretty sure there are rules about running red lights, cycling in the middle of the road, cycling on the sidewalk, going down the wrong way of a one-way street, etc. I have seen each and every one of these instances on a daily basis on my walk to or home from work. I only know one person who cycles on a regular basis (I'm not sure he reads this, but I'm calling you out, Smitty), and I don't know if he follows the rules of the bicycle code, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Aside from the aforementioned friend of mine: fuck you, bicyclists...fuck you.
As with everything that happens on this page, a story prompted this entry. So here it is: while walking back from the gym tonight, I find my normal path through the graveyard has been closed off (early, I might add – you fuckers) so I end up taking the alternate route. As I'm crossing the street in a heavily construction affected area, I'm nearly completely decimated by some fuck-face cyclist. Now, here's where I would normally say “it totally wasn't my fault; that guy's a prick,” but I'm not going to say it. I might be completely at fault here, I don't know. I had my ear-phones in and turned up to “I'm definitely going to be deaf later in life” volume so I probably didn't hear his stupid fucking bell that all riders have (I'm so jealous though...I want one for walking so people get out of my damn way) to warn pedestrians they're about to fuck their world up. Also, I failed to look to my right to check for on-coming traffic because I was lazy and stupid. Basically, if this guy would have plowed his bike into me, I pretty much deserved it.
At this point you should be asking yourself one question: why is this guy a fuck-face? The answer, dear reader is the same reason why I'm taking partial blame here: I don't know the rules for cyclists, so I just assume he was breaking them. Here are the facts: I could be (read: probably) wrong, but last I checked, you're not allowed to drive the wrong way down a one-way street right in the middle of the fucker. Maybe cyclists are immune to that little-known rule. Also, after he nearly took my leg off with his front fender, he did not stop and say anything...nothing at all. If it were me on the cycle, I believe I would have stopped and apologized profusely even if it were not my fault. The least I would do is stop to make sure the person is okay and not having a fucking heart attack from their brush with near death. Not only did this guy not stop and see if I was mid-coronary, but he flipped me the bird while simultaneously pointing to his head profusely as if to say “get the fuck out of my way you dumb-shit pedestrian. I'm on a bike, you should know better than to get in my way because I ALWAYS have right of way.” At least that's what he said in my head. It may not have even been the middle finger...he could have just been pointing to his ear implying that I shouldn't listen to my music so loud or I could get destroyed by a cyclist. I don't care, I prefer the former. He's a dick.
However, after I got over my near bone-crippling encounter, I starting thinking about how awesome it would be if I was actually hit by that guy. I have nineteen days left on this continent and have yet to be injured in a way that would require a hospital visit. With less than three weeks left, it would be sweet, pure hilarity that I would probably, at the very least, have a broken bone or two after making it through the year relatively in-tact. I can see the headline now:
Stupid American forced revered British citizen to hit him with his bicycle. The cyclist is alive and well; we think the American is still in the road somewhere.
Okay, that's a long headline, but can't you just see it? I can...
Anyway, I'm done with the cyclist. I don't like him, he doesn't like me...but I'm pretty sure neither of us know the actual laws of cycling.
Side note: I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but have you ever noticed people with baby strollers can do whatever the fuck they want with no repercussions? Next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention to what they do and how little regard they have for others around them. I've seen this phenomenon in three separate countries, so you can't tell me it's just an American or British thing. The only example I have right now is what happened after that dick on the bike almost shattered my pelvis. Going down yet another construction riddled road (they're getting ready for the Olympics, so I'll allow it), a woman with a stroller and two kids in tow sees me coming up a very narrow sidewalk and busts it in there right before I get to her sidewalk entrance point. The next fifty feet are spent weaving back and forth looking for an opening like the driving scene with Borat and Will Ferrell in Talladega Nights. Zero regard for strangers...because she has a stroller. Seriously – next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention. I promise you won't be disappointed.
As always, questions/comments – you know what to do. I have seriously been lacking in responding, so my apologies. I promise I'll do better.
Now, on to the meat of this entry: I hate bicyclists. I'm not exactly sure where I first heard this little anecdote, and I'm probably totally butchering it (I'm para-phrasing, here), but here it is: in regards to usage of roads and sidewalks, motorists hate pedestrians, pedestrians hate motorists, but fucking everybody hates bicyclists. If anyone knows exactly where this came from, let me know so I can properly credit this person/entity.
Anyway, from what I can tell, the rules do not apply to bicyclists in London. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about bicycle laws in this city or country. However, I'm pretty sure there are rules about running red lights, cycling in the middle of the road, cycling on the sidewalk, going down the wrong way of a one-way street, etc. I have seen each and every one of these instances on a daily basis on my walk to or home from work. I only know one person who cycles on a regular basis (I'm not sure he reads this, but I'm calling you out, Smitty), and I don't know if he follows the rules of the bicycle code, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Aside from the aforementioned friend of mine: fuck you, bicyclists...fuck you.
As with everything that happens on this page, a story prompted this entry. So here it is: while walking back from the gym tonight, I find my normal path through the graveyard has been closed off (early, I might add – you fuckers) so I end up taking the alternate route. As I'm crossing the street in a heavily construction affected area, I'm nearly completely decimated by some fuck-face cyclist. Now, here's where I would normally say “it totally wasn't my fault; that guy's a prick,” but I'm not going to say it. I might be completely at fault here, I don't know. I had my ear-phones in and turned up to “I'm definitely going to be deaf later in life” volume so I probably didn't hear his stupid fucking bell that all riders have (I'm so jealous though...I want one for walking so people get out of my damn way) to warn pedestrians they're about to fuck their world up. Also, I failed to look to my right to check for on-coming traffic because I was lazy and stupid. Basically, if this guy would have plowed his bike into me, I pretty much deserved it.
At this point you should be asking yourself one question: why is this guy a fuck-face? The answer, dear reader is the same reason why I'm taking partial blame here: I don't know the rules for cyclists, so I just assume he was breaking them. Here are the facts: I could be (read: probably) wrong, but last I checked, you're not allowed to drive the wrong way down a one-way street right in the middle of the fucker. Maybe cyclists are immune to that little-known rule. Also, after he nearly took my leg off with his front fender, he did not stop and say anything...nothing at all. If it were me on the cycle, I believe I would have stopped and apologized profusely even if it were not my fault. The least I would do is stop to make sure the person is okay and not having a fucking heart attack from their brush with near death. Not only did this guy not stop and see if I was mid-coronary, but he flipped me the bird while simultaneously pointing to his head profusely as if to say “get the fuck out of my way you dumb-shit pedestrian. I'm on a bike, you should know better than to get in my way because I ALWAYS have right of way.” At least that's what he said in my head. It may not have even been the middle finger...he could have just been pointing to his ear implying that I shouldn't listen to my music so loud or I could get destroyed by a cyclist. I don't care, I prefer the former. He's a dick.
However, after I got over my near bone-crippling encounter, I starting thinking about how awesome it would be if I was actually hit by that guy. I have nineteen days left on this continent and have yet to be injured in a way that would require a hospital visit. With less than three weeks left, it would be sweet, pure hilarity that I would probably, at the very least, have a broken bone or two after making it through the year relatively in-tact. I can see the headline now:
Stupid American forced revered British citizen to hit him with his bicycle. The cyclist is alive and well; we think the American is still in the road somewhere.
Okay, that's a long headline, but can't you just see it? I can...
Anyway, I'm done with the cyclist. I don't like him, he doesn't like me...but I'm pretty sure neither of us know the actual laws of cycling.
Side note: I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but have you ever noticed people with baby strollers can do whatever the fuck they want with no repercussions? Next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention to what they do and how little regard they have for others around them. I've seen this phenomenon in three separate countries, so you can't tell me it's just an American or British thing. The only example I have right now is what happened after that dick on the bike almost shattered my pelvis. Going down yet another construction riddled road (they're getting ready for the Olympics, so I'll allow it), a woman with a stroller and two kids in tow sees me coming up a very narrow sidewalk and busts it in there right before I get to her sidewalk entrance point. The next fifty feet are spent weaving back and forth looking for an opening like the driving scene with Borat and Will Ferrell in Talladega Nights. Zero regard for strangers...because she has a stroller. Seriously – next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention. I promise you won't be disappointed.
As always, questions/comments – you know what to do. I have seriously been lacking in responding, so my apologies. I promise I'll do better.
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