I don’t cry no more, don’t look to the sky no more…

… and then I moved into the new apartment. It’s great, it gives a feeling of home in an otherwise foreboding alien place. In fact, I don’t mind it at all. The location’s perfect with 12 cafes within 10 meters and four grocery stores plus a dozen odd meat shoppes and dealerships… not to mention the underground gun running facility and the local gangsta’s paradise. No seriously though, most of the people are from Morocco/Egypt/Iran* and walking outside past 8 is dangerous. But aside from that it rocks, doing life behind bars never sounded so good.
…and then I did this race called Paris-nice. It has a great name but it’s not for the solemn of soul. It throws the wrath of hell at you everyday, so if you’ve ever done anything bad in your life you’ll be left repenting. The first three days everyone was walk’n around with a chip on their shoulder and a clip at their waist… anyone who moved was covered in blood. I had never done a race where not once during the 8 stages did I finish with the front bunch, but there’s always got to be a first… and I fear it may not be the last. The true definition of sporting finally revealed itself. If someone thinks dog fighting should be illegal, then… how can this not be? Certainly it’s inhumane… but? Okay. Enjoy your Easter.

*according to the Boston Globe, 92.8 percent of the south side of Girona, Spain is from Morocco, Egypt or Iran.