Biking home with my neighbor friend Byron, like we do, a European jillapi of a van pulled up next to me. Thinking nothing of it I kept on a-pedalin’ when all of a sudden the van began to melt into my lane and turn right in front of me, cutting me off. As it turns out, my right break doesn’t work very well and all I could see was the cigarette the driver ashed on my tire as I careened into the side of the van.
I emerged without a scratch but a little more skittish on the road. Lesson learned.
The van was also fine.
Earlier in the week, the same friend Byron gave me a bus pass when I couldn’t find mine. Thinking I was being hilarious I made him a note that said: “I.O.U. 1 billet. Merci!”
When he got home, it apparently fell out of his backpack and square on the welcome mat at his host mother’s house. Not knowing what “I.O.U.” meant, she immediately assumed it was a gang note and called the police. Byron arrived home after school to a freaked-out host mother on the phone with a friend.
France loves me.
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