I want to be a bikie

Ok, before we go any further with this, I would like to apologise to my scooter. For those of you who don't know him, my scooter's name is Struppi (which means "messy hair" in Swiss German, but let's not get into this, it's a long story) and he is the cutest thing ever. He is cute and red and sexy and I love him. We've got a great relationship. We hang out almost every day and never get sick of each other. I polish his coat and he smiles at me and I blow him kisses when I walk up to him. We look great together, we have a similar dress sense and he carries my groceries home. We complete each other. You can see, Struppi and me really have no issues whatsoever, which is why this might come as a bit of a shock to him. I want a motorbike. Sorry, Struppi. I still love you and you will always be my first love.

But sometimes... sometimes, when we stand at the intersection, waiting for the light to go green, sometimes a big bike comes up and stops next to me. And I look over and my heart beats a bit faster. And the bike revs the engine and I bite my lip and try to avoid Struppi's jealous look as I imagine it was me on the bike.

My mum is most definitely going to have a heart attack when she reads this and she might even wonder what went wrong and whether maybe she should have been less strict with me or more strict or allowed me to have a dog. Or a hamster. But honestly, none of this would have mattered. I want a bike, preferably a Triumph, and I want a leather jacket and I'm going to paint wings on my helmet and my bike is going to spit fire and my hair will blow in the wind and I will laugh as I overtake your ass. Mark my words. Sorry mum.