I have a problem.
I’m a man, or at least I’ve always been one, I don’t need to be told otherwise.
My journey into the world of bicycles began on a bicycle.
As a kid, I loved the sound of my mom’s pedal-powered bicycle.
I’d always run to her when she would get in the shop and, once I was a bit older, I’d ride the bike to and from school to school.
My parents would also get me to ride, often for free.
That was until I got to college, and the more I rode the bike, the more my father started to worry.
My mother, he told me, was a crazy, drug-addicted drug addict.
And I had a feeling I was going to be one.
“My mom has a pretty bad addiction problem,” he said.
“She is a drug addict, she’s a prostitute, she has been, and she’s been a prostitute for a long time.
She just keeps getting better and better.
She’s not the person you want to have around your child.”
So, at age 13, I began riding my bike to school, in hopes of getting my mom back.
And while I was at college, my father had a new girlfriend, and we went on a date, which, for whatever reason, turned into an affair.
I got pregnant.
At age 14, I was hooked.
I was on meth.
I had been a drug-dealer for years, which meant I was already addicted.
My father, for his part, had a history of being a drug abuser, and so he didn’t really want to know anything about me.
So he was like, “Oh, I guess you’re the one that I have to get to know.”
And I guess he did, because we started dating, and I was, as he put it, “a little crazy.”
The relationship turned into something more, and it was only after I met my husband that things started to pick up.
We had a beautiful, happy, and healthy marriage, which is why, as I look back on it, I’m so grateful to him for helping me realize that I was crazy, that I wasn’t just a kid who liked to ride bikes.
I had a couple of problems.
I would always get on the bike and ride away.
Sometimes, it was just my dad’s fault, because he was the one who took me to the grocery store, because my dad was always at work, and because my mom and I were constantly going to the gym.
I also started getting on the bikes and doing what my dad wanted me to do.
But I also got my bike cleaned up.
It was something that my dad did, and then I started riding with him.
And my dad would tell me that I needed to learn how to ride a bike, and that he needed to ride my bike with him, and this would happen over and over again.
I wanted to ride him and my bike, to ride with him and make him proud.
So I learned how to do that, and he did it for me, and over time, my bike got cleaner, more reliable, and less of a hassle to get it fixed.
And then, when my parents were finally divorced, I stopped being a “crazy” drug addict and began riding with my father again.
We would ride to the doctor’s office, to get my father to fix things, to go to the mall, to the church.
I realized that I had to learn to ride because I needed his approval, and my dad liked that.
I loved riding, and riding with people I loved, and being with people who I loved.
And so, I became a father, and was, for a while, completely free from my father’s control.
Then, at the age of 25, my dad came home from work one day and, without warning, threw his bike in the laundry.
He had forgotten to put it in the dryer, and when he came back, it had been left there.
I guess that was the moment when my father finally got angry.
He called me, my mother, my brother, and told me that he had found my bike in his garage.
I told him, “Dad, I know you don’t like riding bikes, but I am.”
He looked at me and went, “What?
No, you’re not.”
I told my dad that I loved him, that my mom was beautiful, that he should let me ride, and go back to being a dope addict.
But, as you know, my parents divorced when I was 24.
He eventually did, but, unfortunately, I never had a chance to ride again.
My dad was an alcoholic and a gambler, and, as it turned out, the alcohol did damage to his marriage, and eventually to his family, too.
So, I moved away from the streets and into rehab, where I was sober and