Update: So I'm skating along, the sky is incredibly clear and blue and the air, for the first time in days, does not smell like a giant cow pooed all over my neighborhood. Oh, also I'm sporting high-tech breathable fabrics that drape well and match my eyes so you know I'm giddy. The music is good, too, with some Pet Shop Boys, followed by Kylie Minogue, and then a few minutes of Rufus to recover some oxygen debt. About 6 uneventful miles go by, Gwen is talk-singing about how her shit is bananas, and I'm thinking that my shit is right there with hers, when I hit a big rock. Five seconds of frantic bouncing, bending, swinging of arms and grunting ensue (which sounds quite good if taken out of context) and then finally the skidding (never good in any context). My big gay day had screeched to an asphalty halt. Road rash is not fabulous.
And yes, bitches, there were witnesses.
I played it cool, dusted my shoulders off like any gangsta will, and went on in my usual fashion, bloodied, but not broken.
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