UPDATE 2: Just googled “why would a biker move into my building?” Past Me was apparently very optimistic about Google’s ability to answer specific questions. Though I did find three conspiracy theory websites and a blog about alien bikers. The internet is a wild place, folks.
4. The whole “old lady” thing. Which, wow. That sent me into a two-hour deep dive that I’m not emotionally ready to process. Especially since Hot Neighbour caught me sitting cross-legged on the grass in the building’s communal garden out front this afternoon, stress-eating ice cream straight from the tub, and said, “Rough day, darlin’?” in that deep, gravelly voice that’s definitely the reason women make bad decisions.
Me
HE CALLED ME DARLIN’.
Megan
On a scale of 1 to “needs medical attention,” how dead are you?
Me
SEND DEFIBRILLATOR.
Megan
Don’t make me call Brad for a psychological evaluation.
Me
I’ll behave.
Megan
That’s a lie and we both know it.
(Side note: Who gave him permission to add darlin’ to his vocabulary? Between that and sweetheart, I’m going to need some kind of warning system. Like those storm alerts the Bureau of Meteorology sends out, but for devastating nicknames. “WARNING: Dangerous terms of endearment approaching from the north. Seek shelter immediately and avoid eye contact.”)
5. They’re big on LOYALTY. Which, honestly? Kind of hot. I’ve dated enough tech bros who’d sell their grandma’s secret recipes for a Series A funding round to appreciate some good old-fashioned loyalty. Looking at you, Mark from UX, who “borrowed” my code and presented it as his own. Yes, I’m bitter about that.
Things I still don’t know:
1. His actual name (because there is no way his mother looked at her newborn baby and said “yes, this one’s definitely a Savage”)
2. Whether he’s actually savage (evidence for: the tattoos, the muscles, the way he made Ted from Unit 3C practically run away just by looking at him; evidence against: almond milk, helping old ladies, having actual dimples. And yes, I’ve created a spreadsheet. Don’t judge me.)
3. Why my heart does that stupid flutter thing every time I hear a motorcycle (Megan suggests therapy, I suggest more stalking)
4. How many more times I can pretend to get my mail before the postman stages an intervention (current count: 32)
Current status: Trying to convince myself that my sudden interest in leather jacket care is purely academic. (I know so many things I never needed to know. I could write a thesis on leather maintenance. My browser history looks like I’m planning to open a motorcycle detailing business.)
P.S. In case anyone else is also awake at 1 a.m. googling “1%er MC culture explained” and “what does it mean when a biker calls you darlin’,” please know you’re not alone. We should start a support group. Meeting times TBA, bring snacks and your dignity (if you have any left).
P.P.S. If anyone sees my browser history with my desperate deep dives into “what does a motorcycle club biker actually do,” followed by an embarrassing number of variations of “signs he’s flirting vs just being nice: biker edition,” I’m moving to Tasmania. And changing my name. And becoming a shepherd.
P.P.P.S. For anyone wondering, that white T-shirt of his should be banned. No man should look that good in basic cotton. It’s a safety hazard and I’m considering filing a complaint with building management. “Dear Sir/Madam, regarding the new tenant in Unit 4C: his wardrobe choices are causing cognitive malfunction.”
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UPDATE (2:15 a.m.): Megan just texted to ask if I’m still awake researching bikers. I told her I was sleeping. She replied with “Your active status on Messenger says otherwise.” I need less-observant friends.
SO THAT HAPPENED (OR: HOW TO COMPLETELY EMBARRASS YOURSELF IN FRONT OF A HOT BIKER)
Posted by Anonymous at 4:12 p.m.
