I love how it's never just petty theft when someone steals a bicycle-- it's a TRAGEDY OF EPIC PROPORTIONS! That irreplaceable part of your soul was torn out and destroyed forever! You'll never be able to waltz into Bike Gallery again and pick out a $400 fixie made by Taiwanese child-slaves and shipped to the US by the thousands. Oh, no. Your bike was special!

You rode it all over Portland, from PSU to Rontoms. You really made it your own with those colored grips and matching chain. "Maybe I should drop out and become a bike mechanic," you thought to yourself. "I bet they make a lot of money."

It was there for you on that awkward Pedalpalooza ride, that awkward OK Cupid date, and that awkward time you got a $242 ticket for blowing a stop sign. Remember when you rode it to the Crystal Ballroom and sing-cried along through the whole Postal Service concert?

You gave it a name and you even oiled the chain once. You and this bicycle-- it was like a dream. A love affair for the ages. What an amazing three-months it's been.

Now it's gone. You'll never see "Stella" again. You're heartbroken. Despondent.

But mostly you're just upset that you have to call mom and dad and ask them to buy you another one.

Stellaaaaaaa!!!!

Chunty... If I wrote this post, your comment would've made me cry.

Quickly we pulled our axes from under the pillows and grabbed our wicked fixies from their quivers. Chasing him down he quickly pulled the revolver from his ax and gun holster. He pleaded with our sympathy as he brandished his firearm. "It's for my children" he cried. Amazingly agile this pedaling, armed thief screamed about his rotten circumstance while aiming at us. Not once losing his balance on the bike. We had called the cops but alas he shot perfectly blowing our iPhones out of our hands. All this while bunny hopping a picnic table and grinding the bike down a handrail. Then in puff of smoke he was gone.

Or maybe you're embellishing a bit.