I Hate You Bike Thief, the Theresa version.

A couple years ago, I wrote open letters Falcon Heene a.k.a. the Bubble Boy.  (Part 1 and part 2.)  Due to this morning's recent development (see picture below) and this site, open letters are back.

It's also not censored and, while I typically don't write with "foul language" on my blog, this time I do not care.  Dammit.

My dearest bike thief,

First off, you're an ass-hole.  Good to get that off my chest.

I hope it pains you to know that you are not even the best of the two bike thieves.  You see, last summer my childhood bike was stolen off my my second floor back porch.  It was a 20" turquoise Huffy that I received for Christmas circa the 1996 era.  The first big girl bike to call my own!  The metallic rainbow lettering, the matching water bottle, the silver spokes.  Her and I instantly fell in love and enjoyed over a decade together.  I was on that bike when my brother rode his own two-wheeler into a mailbox, we screeched down hills in the Ozark mountains and nearly crashed at the bottom, it got me through the first summers in high school when all the cool kids drove.  Then in 2010, some fucking asshole ripped my heart out and stole that bike.  Oh, I cried.  You can take my bike, but never my memories! 

Then you came along and tried to bring up the past?  What little you know.

This morning, I walked outside after a decent run to ride home and stared.  Then stared some more.  My mind starting racing...my bike was right here last night, right?  "MY BIKE! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BIKE?  FUCK THIS SHIT!"  To the middle-aged woman walking her little white dogs, I am not sorry for frightening you with this outburst.  We live in a dangerous world and my temperament is the least of your problems.

But it's not her or her gross little dogs I hate; it's you, Bike Thief.  I parked my bike between two Schwinns, both also with chain locks, on purpose. Do you know the retail of a Schwinn? More than my Magna Great Divide mountain bike, I'll tell you that. When you google search "magna bike" do you know the first paid search option? Target.com. Renowned bicycle experts, TAR-GET DOT COM.

After last year's insult on my dignity I bought the cheapest shit available at Target.  A $100 Magna I affectionately named, You're my Boy Blue, that was meant for men.  My bad.  Reviews on Target.com are at one and a half stars.  My favorite is below:

DO NOT BUY THIS BIKE...[it] has a poor gear system. It is very difficult to get the bike to shift gears if you can at all. The shifter on the left handle bar completely broke off during the ride. I had to hold the shifter in place to complete the ride. The grip on the handle bars slips off. The brakes do very little to slow the bike, good luck stopping! [...]

You're my Boy Blue is a death trap of epic proportions.   So maybe that's why I immediately bought a helmet.  When the brakes go out at least my head will be protected.  As annoyed as I am to lose my two-wheeled mode of transportation between point A and point B (especially along the lake shore) I feel a sense of retribution has been dealt to you.  I believe in swift vengeance and karma (or whatever helps me sleep better).

So there you are bike thief, I have directly put you in danger.  Or whomever buys it from you.  Either way, it's no matter to me.  As the letter above states, "I hope my bike takes you straight to hell."

xoxo,
Theresa Marie Voyles

P.S. - Once you ride the bike, and realize its lack of quality, it is possible that you will return it.  If so, please return to the same bike rack with the note, "sorry I stole your shit bike."  Then, walk into traffic.

My Big Fat Ginger Friend

A fan message.

"Saw the story of your life on your blog. This shirt is the story of my life. Much more concise"

Kyle, I miss you. You soulless ginger. Your $5 check for royalties is in the mail and the envelope is addressed to "WE HIT HARD c/o THE MASTERPIECE."

Just to share a story about Kyle.  The Saturday night of Halloween, 2005, Kyle decided that "nobody dresses up like a ghost anymore" so he bought a white sheet and cut holes out for the eyes and the mouth.  Unfortunately, Kyle is stupid and bought a twin fitted sheet that poorly that fit his 6'2"-ish frame.  Later in the night, we made friends with a man on the street who told us about the love of his life and her restraining order against him.  The man attempted to maintain eye contact with the ghost the entire time.  He failed and we laughed.  Kyle probably passed out after four beers.  The end.

Love,
Theresa (Fat)

Little Miss Approachable

I am not a knock out.  In typical social situations I am called cute.  Not the kind of cute reserved for children's shirts with kittens on them, but "pretty" cute.  I look my age to peers but to elders I'm "around 21?"  I'm just short of 5'3" with a sporty, petite build.  I have straight teeth courtesy of adolescent braces and my dad has called me "freckle nose" as long as I can remember, but I like to think I've grown up nicely.  I haven't dyed my hair in five years but believe that being a bottle blonde in high school helped me come out of my shell.  I don't wear too much makeup because I honestly don't know how.  I firmly believe too much makeup should be reserved for events like photos shoots and open casket funerals.

When having a good time out I am approachable to the point of flaw and overly accepting of your lame elevator pitch, as long as you're not an asshole.  I might even laugh at your awful pick up line, depending on how many drinks are in me.  I believe people are inherently good, which makes being a bitch very hard and disabling for me.  In a past life, I was the girl some guy would take home to screw only to be the one who played Guitar Hero with him and his roommates until I sobered up enough to drive home.  Go to bed alone, sucker.  At times I was trusting to the point of, "I am so glad I didn't die last night" at Rome's Termini train station at 7 a.m.  (THAT is a good story.  Another time.  Sorry Dad.)

A defining moment.  My junior year, on college spring break, my girl friends and I hung out with a small group of guys at their condo.  When I mentioned something risque I read in Cosmopolitan one of the guys, 28, beautiful and broad looked at me and flat out said, "you're smarter than that."  We spent the next few hours talking about European travel.  Brian, wherever you are, God bless you.

While reading My Horizontal Life by Chelsea Handler I though of how fun it would be to write my own memoir, minus the promiscuous sex.  I could never bring myself to sleep with a midget anyway.

I'm not old fashioned but I appreciate elements of traditional dating.  Sorry, but my friendliness is sometimes mistaken for flirting.  I gave up playing with emotions a long time ago because that doesn't comfort anyone.  I hate failure, especially when someone's feelings are up for grabs.  For a little while I whined about the inability to find myself a match, sung to the tune of Queen's "Find Me Somebody to Love."

So now I'm kind of in this new chapter in my life and, no lies, I'm nervous.  But I'm not singing Queen anymore.

"I'm okay, I'm alright."

An Open Letter to Falcon Heene

Falcon Heene
The Box in the Attic
Colorado

Dearest Falcon,

It seemed only yesterday [it was] that I used my lunch break to run some errands. When I came back to my desk, hardly an hour later, I received frantic gchat messages. "DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE BALLOON KID?!?!!? HE FLEW AWAY IN A BALLOON IN HIS PARENT'S YARD!!!" I was confused to why any family, besides one in the circus, would have a multi-colored balloon with a wicker basket in their front yard. Yes, this is what I envisioned.

I am so sorry Falcon. I mistook your family for some circus freaks when, in fact, they are extra terrestrial/science loving/Wife Swap freaks. I will never make that mistake again. If I was the child of your parents I would also run away and can only blame you for not running far enough. A box in the attic? What were you going to do when you were hungry? Did you at least bring some Crustable sandwiches? Stupid move, Falcon.

I did enjoy watching you throw up on the Today Show this morning. If you missed it, please relive it using this link. You're an Internet celebrity you know. Your brother looking grossed out is at 5:15. You tossing your cookies is about the six minute mark. BLEEECCCCCH!!!!!

You made my rainy October Thursday afternoon and Friday morning a little bitter brighter. I hope you accomplish great things in your life. Whether you build a super sonic jet for passenger use or develop a cure for a rare genetic disease just know that it doesn't matter. You are the balloon kid who never rode in a balloon. You hid in a box. We salute you.


Sincerely,
Theresa


Below is the best facebook status thread...ever. Balloon Boy Gets the Fresh Price Treatment, original link is here.