My name is Inigo Montoya, you stole my bike, prepare to die.

My apartment maintenance stole my bike. First the wheel was stolen, then, months later, the maintenance man stole my bike. Because it looked abandoned. Well, sir, the difference between abandoned and not mobile is lost on you.  My bike was missing a wheel. Times are rough and replacing a wheel to a bike that probably wasn’t going to get ridden until the weather got nicer, was not in the financial cosmos for me. Now I am missing an entire bike. Why someone would just assume it was abandoned and remove it, without warning, is lost on me. Where was I to put my bike? I have a tiny apartment, and there is nothing to lock the bike to except the staircase, in front of my apartment. As a rent payer, this made the most sense to me. Trust me when I say I would have seen a warning, and complied with it. I look at my bike with its missing wheel every day when I come home. It depresses me. Another reminder of how life is not ideal right now. I also check to make sure everything is still intact. The bike was certainly not going to wheel me anywhere, therefore it sat. The chain became rusted due to monsoon storms. If I no longer wanted the bike, I would have sold the frame, the remaining wheel, the expensive u lock, and the basket. Or I would have said, Fuck it, and thrown it away myself. I don’t care if every other Tempe resident leaves their bike skeletons there to rot away. I was not planning on leaving it when I moved, or never touching it again. I was planning on getting a new wheel for my $200+ investment when money was a bit more flowing, so that during the cooler months, I could still enjoy riding it around to Tempe Marketplace and A mountain. I looked around for the perfect bike to suit my needs and style at an affordable price. It served me very well, until some jackass decided that he needed a pink wheel. Probably to sell for drug money. So congratulations stupid fucking bike thief, and crappy ass apartments, you have ruined my day. My week even.

In addition to that, I bought a gallon of gas with change this morning. There is nothing that says, You are a successful individual that slaved away at a job you hated and put yourself through school and finally made it out alive, like buying one gallon of gas, with change, so you can make it to another job, that pays you less than you made before you got your degree.

Life is just peachy, and I will celebrate Wednesday with copious amounts of alcohol. Cheers.



The words flutter across the dark sky. A large white banner holds those words in big and bold letters. I find myself chuckling at the irony as I stand on the crowded sidewalk of Mill Ave on St. Patrick’s day. Less than half a mile down the street is Arizona State, and most of these people probably attend the university or have at some point. I think about the words individually as a girl I don’t know, but who is with the friend that we came to meet, stumbles around with her cigarette coming inches from burning me in the leg at any moment. Does Tempe use this slogan to pretend to be something else? A college party town with less going for them in other entertainment departments than the state Capitol next to it. Around the corner at ASU, there is plenty of learning taking place, 70k students enroll in some program or another.
4 years ago I would have given anything to be where I stood tonight. (except with the girl having no control over the hand that held the lit cigarette.) Amongst my peers, drinking, having a good time, what more could I want. And at that age, opportunity to feel this way was not readily available. I now stand here, surrounded by people doing just that, feeling like a complete outsider, and not feeling any connection to my environment.
Had I had 3 more drinks in me, I could have felt similar; carelessly throwing my head back in uncontrollable laughter. But I didn’t. I was “with” people I didn’t know, 75% of them too drunk to even know that we had joined their party. (to fill in a blank, my boyfriend and I met up with one of his friends who was out with 4 girls) We stood in line to get into a bar for 20 minutes, only to abruptly be led put by the drunk girls in less than 10 minutes after I got my drink. What seemed like an aimless wander came to a point at a sandwich shop. In my way too sober state, I was miserable with the circumstance. It’s one thing to meet new people, but there was zero interaction here. My night was now being dictated by drunk 21 year old’s I didn’t know and who didn’t know me. The independent woman half of my brain told me to just take the light rail home, and the other side, that acknowledged all of the bad things that can happen told me to call my mom to pick me up.
A night that commenced on its original place, the tavern down the street from my apartment and off the light rail stop, I sat on a barstool watching completely I edited Girls Gone Wild infomercials. Despite the silence taking place between me and my partner, my guilt that he left with me, and anger that our first St.Patty’s day together had as much fun as a tire fire, I was far more comfortable there. No one was drunkenly grinding in outfits that were skimpier than the 7 I had earlier vetoed on myself, I could just sit with my can of cheap beer.
I continued contemplating the words. I learn every day I live here, sometimes it’s something beneficial and sometime’s it’s what I should stop doing. Living is what I struggle with. I moved here to live more, but I have found myself crawling deeper inside of myself. Growing is what I never expected to do; growing out of myself, my city, and my lifestyle.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Pepper Spray

I figure this should be a catchy title. Well I finally feel like posting. This last weekend and the one prior have been intense patches of bad luck.

First, I feel that it should be put out there, that I was pepper sprayed by Tempe Police. The first thought one might have is, “what did you do to get pepper sprayed?” Well the answer to that is very simple: wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a more truthful time to say that phrase. The story begins like this…

On the fateful evening of November 26th, we were going out to play bar golf for a friend’s birthday. We were dressed in our silliest golf attire, slightly buzzed from a bottle of champagne enjoyed before venturing off to Mill Ave via the Orbit shuttle (referred to on my twitter feed as the short bus, smelly, full of homeless people, etc.) because it is free. One great thing about Tempe is the ease of not having to drive when you go out and party, no DUI’s for this wookie. Onward ho, we start at the Mill Ave Cue Club and have an Absolut Berry Acai and Red Bull, all is well. The next stop is Zuma, which is empty until all the retarded small children passing as drinking age come out at approximately 11:30 at night. Blondie’s and then Hooters where the group makes a vast attempt to be crazy, loud, and obnoxious and be evicted from the establishment just like last year. Success! Kicked out of Hooters once again. We made a horrible mistake of ordering something called the Vegas Bomber which turned out to be $8.75 a piece (wtf?) So we hastily drink our overpriced bomber, leave a terrible tip and run. This is the part where things get hazy. Not completely sure what bars were next, we became separated from the rest of the group. We stopped in the cigar shop where there was a very friendly guy attending the shop and my boyfriend bought me and my friend cigars. (Found half smoked cigar in pocket next day.) At some point we have decided to call it a night (this is where the fun starts) and take a seat on a bench outside of Rula Bula. Still unsure of where everyone else had gone, we discussed our travel plans for getting home. The options are to take the Light Rail for $1.75 a person and walk about a half mile to my apartment or take a cab that will cost roughly $10. Before we could finalize our decision, we heard people running and looked to our left to see guys running and then falling onto the ground fighting, a pile too large to decipher who was fighting and who was attempting to break it up. This fight is taking place at least 6 feet from where we are sitting. As quickly as it happened and we are able to process that a fight is erupting in our vicinity, we are overcome by a spraying noise and wetness in our faces. And then all of a sudden, I am on FIRE. The stinging and burning is more than I could ever have imagined. Complete confusion as to what happened and why overcomes me. I am blind and cannot stop rubbing my eyes, which is the wrong thing to do. I have drank too much to be able to fully control what my body is doing. I am a sobbing mess, because what else can you do when you are trying so hard to see what is happening and get the shit out of your eyes that is burning. I haven’t cried like that in I don’t know how long. Now did police detain anyone? Don’t think so. Did they say they were sorry or address the fact that they should not of sprayed an entire area of people that were clearly not involved? No. Did I get a free ride home? Not from them. At some point paramedics were called because I was a mess. All I wanted was for the burning to stop and to go home. Finally after an indeterminable amount of time (had to be at least 30 minutes) I was able to see again. I had a friend from the group pouring water over my eyes and some sort of moistened cloth given to me by the paramedics. We got a ride home from a friend that wasn’t out with us and made it safely home. I still can’t find my keys from that night. oh yeah awesome thing is that in the shower the next day, the pepper spray reactivates and burns my hands all over again. 

Oh yeah and apparently the Rula Bula wouldn’t even let us in to use their bathroom to wash the shit off because we were too drunk according to them. Really guys? Trust me when I say I wasn’t concerned with drinking anymore.

So that is the story of Thanksgiving weekend. Thanksgiving was fine and dandy. I didn’t do any Black Friday shopping because I’m broke and you already know how I feel about that. Plus, people get hurt. A lady pepper sprayed other shoppers in a California Wal-Mart in the name of getting an X-Box. In Buckeye, a guy was arrested because they thought he was shoplifting and then while cooperating, slammed to the ground and had his face split open with blood everywhere. Police still handcuffed him as he was unconscious and bleeding openly. Guess what? He wasn’t shoplifting, he was trying to get his grandson out of the way of the hoards of insane people about to trample him in the name of deals. He put the games under his shirt so he could have his hands free. Why would anyone stand in line all night so they could steal??

I’m not happy with people at this moment. Stupid guys fighting leads to me getting pepper sprayed. I’ve never understood why people feel the need to fight. It’s an ignorant and barbaric act that mostly leads to terrible consequences that may not even affect the perpetrators of the fight. And police, while I respect that they are protecting us, they seem to make a lot of bad judgment calls. I mean shit, at least apologize.

The previous weekend’s bad luck went like this: dropped my friend’s phone in the toilet, the one I was borrowing because mine is not working. Now that phone hardly works. Hours later, I dropped my boyfriend’s phone in a cup of tea. WHO DROPS 2 PHONES IN LESS THAN 6 HOURS?? I was sick that weekend. One of my bikes was stolen from in front of my apartment. Yes, it was locked. Bad, Bad Luck.

So I finally ordered the iPhone 4S, after many failed attempts at doing the reserve process from the Apple Store online, I will wait the 2 weeks until my amazing phone arrives and I can be back to normal phone usage with bonus awesome iPhone usage. When that arrives, prepare for me to Insta-gram the shit out of you.