I’m not really sure why, but I got up at five a.m. today. When I am still in class at eight tonight I shall be filled with regret. I am waiting for it to warm up enough for me to take a bike ride. I may have at long last found my exercise. Last Wednesday was the first day I went around the park without having to walk up any steep hills. Friday and Saturday I rode from my house to the park, around the park and back without having to get off the bike at all. I may need to get an IPOD. I have been using this armband radio and Cindy Lauper ballads or car advertisements are not what you need when you hit those hills along the highway side of the park.

Here’s a story that perhaps I shouldn’t tell, let’s call it

The Case of The P.I. P-er:

I was biking back from the park on Saturday and letting my mind wander as per usual and I thought to myself, “What ever happened to the urine girl?” I knew a girl in college who was a little odd. She lived on the same floor as me and when her friends found out she had a crush on me they slipped a note under my door. Ah college. I wasn’t romantically interested, but we did become tertiary friends in that we shared friends and she ended up living for several years with my good friend Beth – who now lives in Seattle. For narrative purposes we will call this girl Jenny – which is of course not her name.

Jenny was a justice system major who dabbled in political science, but wanted above all else to be a professional private investigator. Jenny fell hard for a guy that I must have met, but I don’t remember him. Over the course of their yearlong affair he cheated on her. In response to his infidelity Jenny took a few days to fill a mason jar with her own urine which she then proceeded to pour all over the interior of his car by way of revenge or the primal marking of territory, hence my thinking of her from there forward as “the urine girl”.

Not ten minutes after she entered my mind I was at a stoplight waiting to cross, and Jenny whom I had not see for at least ten years was waiving at me from the opposite corner. She and an older friend came across the street and we made small talk about where our lives had gone. She is now a software developer.
I am a…
What am I again?
I am an asshole.

I thought I noticed a slight resemblance between her and her friend and I asked, “Is this your mother?”

No you didn’t.
You didn’t say, “Is this your sister?” like any normal person might?
No, I opened my mouth and inserted my foot, leg, and bicycle.
In my defense I was unsettled by my long bike ride and the eight-minute plausibly psychic lead on this encounter.

I did not give her my number. We will not be getting together to catch up on old times. I get to tell you about urine girl and from here on out she gets to tell her friends a story about this asshole she went to college with who insulted her best friend by suggesting that she looked old enough to be this thirty year old woman’s mother.
I am a twit.

Well, laughing at yourself is healthy.

Erica told me she thought that my faux pas was well placed lest I should invite that level of crazy into my life.