Craigslist FAIL!

That last entry is a copy of my sadly defunct attempt to unload what's turned out to be the most embarassing yet of my many public humiliations.

Personally, I blame the economy. First, I blame the bloated valuation of certain unamed yet publicly listed securities for the indulgence provided. Yes, I shamelessly and irresponsibly cashed in some paper-stuffs for the Glistening Machine. Now then, I only assume they exist in some paper form somewhere.


Not that I've laid eyes on said paper. No, I knew them only as little links which led to little pie charts and line graphs plotting out my prosperity curve and associated prospects of metawealth. At any rate, I sold them out like some kind-hearted yet dried out milk hefer on her way to the Happy Meal assemblage. And I was glad to do it. Yes, the fever knew no bounds. It's shameful really. I used to deride and cast wan snear upon the workaday lot sneaking about with their lusty desires for the material buzz. Motorcycles, Hah! Dentists and HR managers and such, seeking solace in shiny paint, glimmering chrome, and delusions of the thrill-ride. Ah, but I hadn't yet lived the cube life. It does weird things to ones thought processes. It saps and drains and distorts to an extent where such things seem not only reasonable, but necessary, deserved, and profitable.

Next, I blame Detroit. Sure sure, they didn't produce the folly, nor did they particularly encourage it. The place just sucks. It's the epitome of the rot inherent in the American Dream.

Seriously, there are trees growing out of the tops of downtown high-rises. And entire floors of said high-rises have been relegated to massive pigeon coops. Fascinating stuff.

Well this little pigeon now has a machine he's too afraid to ride. Is that better than some securities which have since become nearly worthless? Good luck, bad luck. Who's to say?


Lastly, again, I blame the economy. For now, I'm unable to sell this beast of a burden at a reasonable price. Every penny pinching bastard out there only offers the bottom of the bottomest price. Gas prices are back down. People are losing their jobs or whatever. Nobody wants to pay a reasonable rate to take it off my hands. Even the ones not included in that list pretend to be only as a bargaining chip and I just won't have it. I can't just flush money down the toilet afterall. So here we sit, scooter and I. Lovers at odds, with no conceivable way back to the fitfull infatuation. Once again: good luck, bad luck, who's to say? Perhaps I'll end up loving it anew and thanking the mighty christ in the sky that it stayed in my hands. Maybe then I'll have that nice accident which leaves me shattered of pelvis. Who's to say?