
MEMBER SINCE: July 2004
occupation: Psychology Student/Law Student
stats: 4 arms, 4 legs, 1 twig, 2 berries, 1 cunt
makes me happy: titties and beer
fantasy: to be a suicidegirl. *sigh*/racecar driver
sign: Gemini/Are For Suckers
makes me sad: Misplaced apostrophes
into: the beautiful, confident women of sg reminding everyone that sexy comes in all shapes and sizes/bikes
i lost my virginity: ...and then he broke my heart/but it was covered by my renter's insurance
body mods: 6 piercings/2 tattoos
gets me hot: black rubber gloves, neckties, suicide girls burlesque, motorcycles
most humbling moment: touring a prison/spending the night in jail
Last Thursday, I taught a ten year-old how to ride a bike. It seems weird saying that I taught him, though, because he was really doing all the work. It's more like I was there while he was learning and I told him a few things that helped him out. Ok. I guess that's pretty much what teaching is.
Thursday was Aaron's second bike lesson. I had come to his house for the first one a couple days before Christmas and we rode around in the driveway a little bit, then out in the street where he kinda started to get it, but only for ten or twenty yards at a time.
Aaron is the son of my mom's friend, Betty. Betty is the original jap. I'm not even sure if she's even jewish, but she seems like a grown-up version of one of the chicks on Laguna Beach. Among my favorite quotes from the twenty-odd years I've known her is, "I don't vacuum." (Who doesn't vacuum?) None of this is to say that I don't like Betty. I do. I don't know if we'd be buddies if I met her at the gym or something, but as a friend of the family, she leaves little to complaint about.
Betty coddles Aaron. My mom was pretty well protective of me when I was little, too but Aaron has to wear a helmet when he rollerblades. I had to wear mine while I rode bikes, so I guess it's kind of an arbitrary line to draw. But something seems silly about a helmet and rollerblades. Maybe it's just me.
On Thursday, Betty brought Aaron over to my parents' house, where I was staying over winter break, for his second (and final) bike lesson. As I was getting his bike out of the station-waggon, I asked him if he had practiced like I told him to. He said he hadn't but he didn't seem like he felt guilty about it the way I did when I told my trombone teacher that I hadn't been practicing ten years ago. I told him that it was totally fine that he hadn't; biking is about fun, and if practicing's no fun, don't do it.
Thursday was Aaron's second bike lesson. I had come to his house for the first one a couple days before Christmas and we rode around in the driveway a little bit, then out in the street where he kinda started to get it, but only for ten or twenty yards at a time.
Aaron is the son of my mom's friend, Betty. Betty is the original jap. I'm not even sure if she's even jewish, but she seems like a grown-up version of one of the chicks on Laguna Beach. Among my favorite quotes from the twenty-odd years I've known her is, "I don't vacuum." (Who doesn't vacuum?) None of this is to say that I don't like Betty. I do. I don't know if we'd be buddies if I met her at the gym or something, but as a friend of the family, she leaves little to complaint about.
Betty coddles Aaron. My mom was pretty well protective of me when I was little, too but Aaron has to wear a helmet when he rollerblades. I had to wear mine while I rode bikes, so I guess it's kind of an arbitrary line to draw. But something seems silly about a helmet and rollerblades. Maybe it's just me.
On Thursday, Betty brought Aaron over to my parents' house, where I was staying over winter break, for his second (and final) bike lesson. As I was getting his bike out of the station-waggon, I asked him if he had practiced like I told him to. He said he hadn't but he didn't seem like he felt guilty about it the way I did when I told my trombone teacher that I hadn't been practicing ten years ago. I told him that it was totally fine that he hadn't; biking is about fun, and if practicing's no fun, don't do it.













Muffin