I've got this beautiful red scooter. I love it. I love to look at it. I love to touch it. I love the way it sounds and the way it smells and the feeling that I have when I ride it. It is time machine, massage therapist, psychotherapist, mind-scrubber, soul-cleanser.
It's easy to forget about past and future and the relentlessly piddling and inexhaustable details of the hence and fro whilst atop this glossy steed.
It's ridiculously cool in the most effortless of ways. It's even more of a personal thrill. It is, in humble fact, a red badge of courage emblazoned upon the sky. This is, without question, the coolest scooter on the market today. Timeless is the word. Bad@$$ is the other. It's going to break my heart to part with it. If you cut me, do I not bleed?
It came to me through no small expenditure of energy and purse. I dreamed and schemed upon possessing such a joy machine for many a long and thirsty year. I made a plan. I checked it twice. I waited oh-so-patiently, gnawing with a feverish anticipation verging on mania for events to conspire and converge and conjoin in just such a way as to make my strike 100% assured of optimal outcomes and favorable post-transaction configurations. The time was right. The market was high, summer was on, and it was for sale for sale for sale! I struck with the vengeance and stiff-backed resolve of a puma on the hunt, RYAAAARRR!
It was mine. And oh, how it did shine.
I busily gathered the accoutrements: helmet, cover, supersafety lock, gloves, and the plentiful miscellania, whathaveyoua, and odditoria availed to the avid motorists function, safety, and style-wise needs. I had become possessed. So singly focused on the full outfitting of my destiny machine was I that I forgot to consider what it was, exactly, I was inviting into my frail chain of existence. That is to say, I forgot to carry the existential 1 in my Calculus Of The Scoot. The 1 being the poor and oft-lamented station owed us mortals wrapped here in our frail arrangements of easily shattered joints, easily sausaged organs, ligaments, and varieties of pinkish musculatures and miracles. And I, bent on playing the cello of all things, could scarcely stomach the notion of broken wrists. And what of rattled skull? It simply won't do.
And so it was, sadly, that my lust for danger, speed, and style was to be outstripped, winnowed back, and thoroughly cowed by my vivid and insistent imaginings of things to come given some minor mishap, be it spawned haplessly or otherwise, by imperfect human, imperfect machine, or imperfect roadway. Weighing out probabilities divided by traditions of ill-luck, I came nearer a decisiveness to begin a consideration of the potential of removing The Great Red Machine of Pleasure from my daily routine. But what sorrow! what tragedy! That only after just obtaining the dream, I find it to have some ill-favored, dark side of malicious portent. Did some genie with an ax to grind just make my best wish come to be, only to laugh boomingly in my face as I realize the tribulation unleashed therein?
Alas, and alack, tis true, tis true. And now I'm resigned. Beaten, and chastened, chased back into my dank cave of cowardly modern-american safety paranoia, as it were, by threat of grievous bodily injury. How base an existence this is. Base and wrought top to bottom with unending injustice, cruelty, meaninglessness and mamed young men fallen, twisted, and moaning upon the blacktop. So I come to you, dear friends, seeking a new home for this Amazing Vehicle of Destiny, this dream of dreams, this scooter of mine.
Is there a Seeker among you? 2008 Stella. 400 miles. Full Chrome. Two heavy-duty locks and a nice cover included. I'm really takin' a bath on this thing.
It's easy to forget about past and future and the relentlessly piddling and inexhaustable details of the hence and fro whilst atop this glossy steed.
It's ridiculously cool in the most effortless of ways. It's even more of a personal thrill. It is, in humble fact, a red badge of courage emblazoned upon the sky. This is, without question, the coolest scooter on the market today. Timeless is the word. Bad@$$ is the other. It's going to break my heart to part with it. If you cut me, do I not bleed?
It came to me through no small expenditure of energy and purse. I dreamed and schemed upon possessing such a joy machine for many a long and thirsty year. I made a plan. I checked it twice. I waited oh-so-patiently, gnawing with a feverish anticipation verging on mania for events to conspire and converge and conjoin in just such a way as to make my strike 100% assured of optimal outcomes and favorable post-transaction configurations. The time was right. The market was high, summer was on, and it was for sale for sale for sale! I struck with the vengeance and stiff-backed resolve of a puma on the hunt, RYAAAARRR!
It was mine. And oh, how it did shine.
I busily gathered the accoutrements: helmet, cover, supersafety lock, gloves, and the plentiful miscellania, whathaveyoua, and odditoria availed to the avid motorists function, safety, and style-wise needs. I had become possessed. So singly focused on the full outfitting of my destiny machine was I that I forgot to consider what it was, exactly, I was inviting into my frail chain of existence. That is to say, I forgot to carry the existential 1 in my Calculus Of The Scoot. The 1 being the poor and oft-lamented station owed us mortals wrapped here in our frail arrangements of easily shattered joints, easily sausaged organs, ligaments, and varieties of pinkish musculatures and miracles. And I, bent on playing the cello of all things, could scarcely stomach the notion of broken wrists. And what of rattled skull? It simply won't do.
And so it was, sadly, that my lust for danger, speed, and style was to be outstripped, winnowed back, and thoroughly cowed by my vivid and insistent imaginings of things to come given some minor mishap, be it spawned haplessly or otherwise, by imperfect human, imperfect machine, or imperfect roadway. Weighing out probabilities divided by traditions of ill-luck, I came nearer a decisiveness to begin a consideration of the potential of removing The Great Red Machine of Pleasure from my daily routine. But what sorrow! what tragedy! That only after just obtaining the dream, I find it to have some ill-favored, dark side of malicious portent. Did some genie with an ax to grind just make my best wish come to be, only to laugh boomingly in my face as I realize the tribulation unleashed therein?
Alas, and alack, tis true, tis true. And now I'm resigned. Beaten, and chastened, chased back into my dank cave of cowardly modern-american safety paranoia, as it were, by threat of grievous bodily injury. How base an existence this is. Base and wrought top to bottom with unending injustice, cruelty, meaninglessness and mamed young men fallen, twisted, and moaning upon the blacktop. So I come to you, dear friends, seeking a new home for this Amazing Vehicle of Destiny, this dream of dreams, this scooter of mine.
Is there a Seeker among you? 2008 Stella. 400 miles. Full Chrome. Two heavy-duty locks and a nice cover included. I'm really takin' a bath on this thing.
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