he's mad at me. he staked out the sprint to county line as some sort of trophy, a representation of his coming racer boy form. and um... when shrimpy message board jockey denied him the 'win' he developed a fixation on my fundament, and a deeper if not ineffable sense/feeling akin to what an object feels when owned and discarded. no metric for FITMENT is better than crushing the souls of the still delusional.
also, only call me doc when i'm on my Seven. its the law.
shrink, terrorist, poet, president of concerned cyclists for the abolishment of bovine source bicycle parts and head of the disaffected commie dishwashers union.
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