You are going down a dark road on a bicycle. It is a hot summer night and the mosquitos are swarming. They are attracted to your sweat and breath. You feel the wind from a treebranch that nearly whips your face. Then you see the man who has been following you for the last six miles. You pedal harder, but it impossible to outrun him. You are going uphill.
You fumble for the lever that reduces the gear ratio. Your name is Lance Armstrong and you are having a nightmare. You wake up and wipe the sweat off your brow and have sex with Cheryl Crow.
"Boy," you think, "maybe this isn't so bad."
The End
| | jackquazar (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2){kind=small} jackquazar) wrote, |
Freshly Ravished
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