I get that he rides a bike. Fine. That's great. However, I can't stand how this bike is always in my face as soon as I step through his door. It's the worst because his hallways are super narrow and passing by this bike feels like I'm in a Japanese subway car during rush hour. I gotta make sure my valuables are secured because I feel like the bike is trying to pickpocket me as I walk to the living room!
Without fail, the handlebars--or, as I like to call them, the ovary-impalers--jab at me as I squeeze by. The pedals stab at my shins like a midget ninja. I hate it! Fuck his fucking bike in his fucking hallway.
I know there's no where else to stash it because we live in a city and it'd probably get stolen in about half a minute if he locked it to a tree outside, but it doesn't mean that I should have to endure this pat-down courtesy of his ten-speed. And, that just makes me sad.