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July 18, 2009
Oh, the staggering mediocrity, the sheer weight of its burden, the tedium of its maintenance. Swifter than quicksand, scarier than a nightmare of disembodied hands reaching up through graveyard soil to grab at and clutch the ankles of a white nightgowned heroine alas, less banal descriptions would be wasted on my relationship with AG. I simply could not continue dating this person who, equipped with a sleek Italian bike that cost more than a month of my NYC rent, never got beyond pedaling around his neighborhood in the professional cyclist outfit that neon-brightly underscored the magnitude of his pedestrian existence.