As some of you may know I ride my bicycle to work. Recently I replaced the old, cracked tries with fancy new, mustard yellow ones. In my excitement I showed off a little too much with them and wore considerable flat spots on the rear tire, one of which was showing the threads under the rubber (very bad, NSFW). After realizing my mistake and once again accepting my idiocy, I refrained from using my rear brake for as long as I could. Until yesterday when I hopped on my bike to ride home after work only to discover the lack of air in the rear tire. Andy was nice enough to pick me up, and this morning before work I took the rear wheel in to the bike shop and shamefully asked for a new tube and tire, preferably a tire that could handle my abrasive nature. Apparently my Satellite felt I hadn’t fully learned my lesson yet, because when I returned to my car with my wheel I realized the left rear tire was all but flat. I filled it back up at the nearest gas station before rolling in to work a few minutes late. I only hope she doesn’t lose her pressure again before I leave work for home.

I fail at tires.

Recently, our favorite 24-hour Mexican joint was robbed at gunpoint twice in one week, both times by the same assailant. The employees made Mike and Jordan walk along the drive-through (between cars, no less) during their most recent late night food run. Last week, at Aiberto’s—our former burrito shack of choice—a man was stabbed by one of the employees.

Some call it slums, some call it nice. (I wish I hadn’t sold my Dookie CD for $5 back in high school when I figured I’d grown out of liking Green Day.)