So some unbelievably cuntish motherfucker stole my bike yesterday. This is as polite as I get on the topic. And I'd just kitted it out with a new basket - I cycled all the way to Trafford Park in the rain to get that last weekend. On the bright side, the robber didn't get my lights, because some other cockfaced turd stole them a while back. Oh, I do lead a charmed life.
The result is I'm perusing bicycle racks all over Manchester ready to tear strips out of some fucker if I find my poor lost pet chained up somewhere. Also I've got a disturbing urge to push other people off their bike onto the ground, and preferably into a puddle, because they're all sailing past me with leisurely ease, whilst I'm tramping the pavements like a surly hobo. I'll be damned if the bus companies are getting my money. Every £2.40 counts towards a replacement bike, you know. My feet hurt. Since yesterday evening I've walked from the Northern Quarter to Whalley Range; Whalley Range to the university; university to Chorlton (to look at a dismal selection of secondhand bikes); back to Whalley Range. Walking, I've concluded, is for chumps, and I'll be damned if I'll do much more of it. If I haven't got a new bike by this time next week, you've got permission to come round and put me out of my misery. Seriously.
Also, before the bike was robbed, yesterday morning, I'd had a takeaway cup of coffee and accidentally spilled the dregs of it in my bicycle helmet (yeah, I'm not sure how that happened, either) and then put the helmet on my head, so I ended up with an unexpected and not very pleasant coffee-shower.
Karma, you absolute retard, what did I do?