His name
Why he picked THIS building
Why I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me—like he could see straight through my “I totally meant to drop my keys” act to the “holy shit you’re hot” panic underneath
How to explain to Megan that “but his ARMS, Megs” is a perfectly valid reason to forget how to human
Why I’m starting this blog
Actually, scratch that last one. I know exactly why I’m starting this blog. Because if I don’t write this somewhere, my brain might explode. It’s like it can’t process his level of hotness without external storage.
And I can’t tell Megan because she’s still dating that psychology grad student who’ll try to analyse what my “attraction to alternative lifestyle choices” says about my relationship with my father. (Spoiler alert, Brad: Nothing. It says NOTHING. Although he’d probably have a field day with the fact that I’ve already planned our wedding in my head. The bikes would make excellent photo props, right? NO. STOP IT EDEN.)
I also can’t tell anyone at work because I’ve spent two years building my reputation as the most serious female coder in a sea of bros who still think “that’s what she said” jokes are peak humour. Pretty sure admitting I’m lowkey stalking the hot biker next door would undo all of that faster than hitting delete on a production database. Plus, Karen from Accounting would make a spreadsheet analysing my “bad boy attraction vectors” or something equally terrifying.
So here we are. Me, this blog, and the sound of a Harley starting up at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night.
Okay, I just got up and looked out my window. That’s definitely a club patch on his leather jacket.
Google search #2 of the night: “What do motorcycle club patches mean”
Google search #3: “How to tell if you’re having a crisis or just really need a hobby”
Google search #4: “Do bikers like girls who code”
Google search #5: “How to delete your Google search history permanently”
Send help. Or wine. Or both. Preferably both.
Actually, send whatever deity is in charge of arm genetics to explain why forearms like my neighbour’s should even be allowed to exist.
UPDATE (11:59 p.m.): Just got a text from Megan asking if I’ve “done something stupid yet.” The fact that she knows me this well is concerning.
P.S. My algorithm now thinks I have a biker forearm fetish. Honestly, it’s not wrong.
P.P.S. Before you panic, this isn’t going on my public blog. I’m not trying to get murdered or sued, thanks. I’ve set this journal to private, password-protected, and off the cloud. Think of it as a chaos dump for Future Therapy Me. If I ever make it public, I’ll be redacting names, affiliations, and any detail that could get me yeeted into a ditch.
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EVERYTHING YOU (DON’T) WANT TO KNOW ABOUT MOTORCYCLE CLUBS (OR: HOW I WASTED MY ENTIRE SUNDAY)
Posted by Anonymous at 1:12 a.m.
March 11
So, I may have fallen down an internet rabbit hole. You know those Google spirals where you start reading about cute otters and somehow end up learning about medieval torture devices? Yeah, this was worse. Though I did learn some interesting facts about otters that I’ll never be able to use in normal conversation. (Did you know they hold hands while sleeping so they don’t drift apart? Unlike my last three relationships.)
Things I’ve learned about MCs (that’s motorcycle clubs for those of you who, like me until approximately twenty-eight hours ago, thought MC only stood for Master of Ceremonies):
1. They’re not “gangs.” (According to multiple websites that look like they were designed in 1996, this distinction is Very Important.) I tried explaining this to Megan via text:
Me
They’re not a gang! It’s a club!
Megan
