You know who really gets my goat? That guy. That guy gets my goat and leads her around on a little leash, talking baby talk when my goat hates baby talk, being all patronizing because she's a goat and he's an asshole and in the Way Things Are Figured, goats count for less, and then he makes some snide comments about my goat when she's done nothing more than try to be accomodating even though she's wondering what the hell this guy's problem is and exactly when he's going to come to his senses and let her get back to eating the dandelions when instead all he wants to do is keep slagging her because she's a goat.
Okay. I think I'm done now.
I just sold my motorcycle.
The truth is, I haven't gotten to ride it in far too long. Just getting back on it to move it into the driveway, I got sort of weepy and nostalgic. The guy who bought it was a very nice man, in his late 40s or early 50s, looking for something "fun" to ride. Well, my bike certainly is that.
It was my first bike. My dependable commuter, my hot-looking baby, my "I can always find a place to park" buddy.
On the one hand, I'm ready to cry over it. Just cry. On the other hand, I'm also ready for a new bike. Something with a little more gumption. Something with a little more chutzpah. I don't know when I'd be able to get another bike. Probaby not until after the truck's paid off (and what I got for the old bike will go a long way toward paying off the truck), but I will get one.