Pile On

To the person upon whose bike I left a pile of puke: yes, it was me. I admit it, and I'm sorry—as I sorry as I must be in order to regain my favored position in my girlfriend's bed. She demanded that I apologize. And so I do. I was partying on her birthday and drank the shot that I shouldn't have, which led me to seek the calm of fresh air and open space—out the back door of the bar and directly in front of your bike, where I reportedly ralphed all over your bike seat. I apparently intended to do this—I do not recall, but others insist I took careful aim—and I feel bad about it now. If it was truly me. It seems to have been me: a friend took a photograph of the result, and I must say yours was a nice bike, and I must say my pile was tremendous; I must have lost five pounds in the process. I hope your restaurant wasn't completely locked up after your shift so that you could rinse and scrub off the dried garlic fries. I hope you weren't able to smell that smell while biking home. And I really hope you don't park your bike inside your home; I suspect even your neighbors would hate you. And it's all my fault. By the way, if you'd like, as a kind of peace offering, I can send you this incredible picture. Give me your e-mail address, and I'll forward it to you.

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