Let's set the scene.
Friday, I had class, grabbed a coffee, and went to study
and do tags
. I grabbed BK and about three minutes in, my stomach decided to be majorly unhappy with me. To the point where I didn't think I'd be able to ride the entire way home, let alone bike home from the bus.
So I asked for a ride.
Sunday afternoon, I come back to campus to have an appointment with my partner for an oral Linguistics report. Things go fine, I go back to study for a few hours, and leave twenty minutes before the bus is supposed to show. It gives me time to stop, grab a soda, and grab my bike.
Except there is no bike.
I have a routine and sometimes I mix it up, so I look in the three or four spots I normally park it. Nothing. I look again and then a third time. Absolutely nothing.
This is the point I call the police.
So, as far as I know, my bike's been stolen. I'm going to look tomorrow again every since conceivable spot that I could have parked it, just to make sure that I didn't try a shortcut, but I'm pretty sure I parked it where I always do, which means it's gone.
Then (oh, did you think that was the only thing to happen, silly person?) bugly42
's parents take me out to this amazing Italian restaurant to cheer me up. The food is always great and I order what I always get: spaghettini with baby clams in red sauce. It takes about fifteen minutes to get our salads and there are onions on them. Rob (the dad) is allergic to onions and the salads go back. Then Sherry (the mom) finds an onion in her salad and it goes back. The third time her salad comes back, it has blue cheese instead of ranch.
The manager comes over and, while he's talking, Rob realizes that while he didn't taste the onion, he must have had some. Did I mention he's violently allergic? No, he doesn't die or have to go to the hospital, but that's only because he caught it before he could have any more.
Really, this weekend can just end right now.