text-hole -- For the definition, see here
I’ve told you about my neighbor that I get a ride with back to Dog Mtn. She’s probably your typical Tucson driver: Big-ass SUV, speeder, tailgater, cell phone blabber, and all-around aggressive mean piece of shit. Not driving a car, she’s quite a pleasant person.
This trip she texted almost the whole way home—about 20 minutes none-stop—oh, and while tail-gating some poor bastard.
I think when she drives her SUV, she feels like she’s got a penis—just another prick flexing their entitlement, n’es cet pas, mes amis?
I just wear my street clothes for the quick ride to Heather's office. Big Sexy has fenders so that will keep me dry for the trip as well.
A cold wet day in Tucson--snow on Mt. Lemmon.
There's a new park close by Heather's office for bikes, runners, and horseback riders. It's very pleasant and there seems to be an old neighborhood where people have kept horses as I saw many stables and many horses--horses that looked happy and healthy--as in people actually ride them right there in the river breaks.