Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass!

No, that’s not my bike – frozen, buried, forgotten.

My bike is named Silvie.

Silvie is currently nestled in the teeny hall of my apartment, buried beneath itchy coats, scarves and mittens, and tragically forgotten through the winter that won’t quit.

I’m sure some of you, especially my dad, are snickering right now. I’m the girl that never had seasons growing up and loves snow, right?

I no longer love snow…I loathe it.

I want vivacious colors to make my eyes sore, I want pungent grass to make my nose itch, I want zealous sunshine to make my skin drunk, no…intoxicated.

I don’t want white, I want green. I don’t want decay, I want bloom. I don’t want chapped, I want sweaty.

Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass!

So, anyways. This is Silvie and I when we were happy…

It was summer in the fine city of Milwaukee, the year I first moved here. Without batting an eye, I gleefully traded in my clunky car Booger for sleek and sexy Silvie.

That’s the Milwaukee Art Museum, gorgeously designed by the great Santiago Calatrava, cascading behind me.

Of course, strangled by Winter’s crone hands, the museum looks quite different now…

So, back to the frozen, buried, forgotten bike I mentioned before I went off on my cabin fever tangent.

This bike is stationed right outside my apartment. And strangely, it’s been sitting there since last summer.

I know this, because I like to park my bike there when I’m on the run. Unfortunately, my prime parking was always commandeered by this asshole bike with the lame basket.

Well, well, well…look at the asshole now. Actually, I feel kind of bad for the asshole.

Not only is he on his way to becoming a snowball, a career he certainly never intended to have, he has turned into a tourist attraction.

Now that he is one with the snow, people stop and take pictures of him every day, spotlighting his public abandonment and emasculating him even more than that frou-frou basket.

Although Silvie has been neglected for months, she knows I still love her, that I yearn to frolic with her on the city streets, narrowly escaping death through the treachery of downtown commuting.

She knows.

So, my question for all of you is…what the hell happened to the owner of that bike?! I’ve been mulling over many theories lately, but I’m interested in what you have to say.

Humor me…I’m bored as shit.

(Please pardon my unladylike language throughout this post. The Winter Blues have spoken.)