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Riding home from work tonight maybe I'll get hit by a truck along the intersection where Duval loses its bike lane. Just south of Oakland, maybe tomorrow. Still wasting time in kitchens cleaning up the restaurants; eating shitty every day, feeling shitty every day, from a steady diet of whiskey and water, because I never liked bubblegum or pop for that matter. Root beer ain't quite the same for picking up corpses off the side of the road, and I'm in dead corpse now. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up in Oakland. Riding home from work tomorrow maybe I'll snap when some fucker yells from his car. Maybe my bike will be caught in his axles and maybe while he's spinning I'll yell from the curb, "no YOU get a life," Oh wait, it's too late.
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