If You're Reading This, The Bitch Fell Off!

I finally feel ready to write about this. As many of you have noticed, the bitch has fallen off my motorcycle. It happened about 3 months ago. Ha, what am I saying? It happened the afternoon of December 19th, just a few days before Christmas. We were riding down to her parents' place in Blacksburg, VA. Every year we alternated whose family we would celebrate the holidays with. Both of us grew up in big families and just absolutely loved being around them that time of year. So this year we were at the bitch's family's house. They have a great little plot of land down there with an absolute killer barbecue set up on the back deck.

A few miles out from the destination, we would always pull over at a rest stop, and she would dress me up as Santa Claus so that when we arrived at the house the young ones would think Santa was arriving on a motorcycle. Now, it's been years since there were any real tots in the family, but we kept doing it as part of a tradition. It felt goofy, sentimental, and mostly, the bitch, my hussy, loved it. She really loved it.

Now, this is where things get murky and I apologize if I get too upset. I've been reading a lot of books on trauma and I guess it isn't unusual for memories to get jumbled. I just wish my last moments with the bitch, that slut weren't so harrowing. We were trying to remember the rest stop we had stopped to change in the prior years (there is so much construction happening on Rt 77 that I have a hard time recognizing it each time we travel down there.) The bitch and I weren't ones to argue, but it had been a long ride and the weather hadn't been great. The bitch was being a real bitch and had baked a chess pie and she kept nagging me to stop swerving so it wouldn't get too bruised in the storage top box. I just wanted to get to her parents' place before the sun went down and so we could get first dibs on whatever her dad was barbecuing. In hindsight it was so stupid. It was so so so stupid. 

I guess then we were headed down the highway and at the last minute, the bitch was like, "Honey, that was the exit we wanted to take" and I thought I had enough time to get into the exit lane and scoot in front of the other cars, so I made, in hindsight, too intense of a cut to the right and in what seemed like slow motion, the bitch flew off the back of my seat and into the air. She soared right into the trees lining the exit, her limp body almost angelically lifted above the ground. I've blocked out what happened next. It's funny, because the two of us used to watch hours of Evel Knievel footage, of him crashing at Caesar's Palace, him attempting the Indian River jump. But when the daredevil isn't a trained stuntman and it's your beloved bitch, there is nothing entertaining about it. 

The bitch, my one and only whore, fell off that day. And the bitch died, because people don't survive falling off of motorcycles when they are speeding down the highway. I don't think I've said that out loud, but it's true. And suddenly this t-shirt isn't just a funny road stop purchase that we made together. (The bitch had a shirt that said on the front, "If You're Reading This, You're Driving Backwards and No One is Operating This Motorcycle.") This shirt is a living memorial for the bitch, the cunt of my life. I love her and I miss her. My life is incomplete without her. 

No one showed up as Santa this year. Instead, they were greeted by a grown man in leather, crying, in shock, having left the scene of the crime. I wear this shirt in her honor. I live each day for her memory. I ride this motorcycle because of her love. I just ask that you hold onto your bitch, because if she does fall off, she will not survive.