I moved around a lot as a kid. Actually, I've never lived in one place longer than five years...at least not continuously. Mostly California, but I lived in Houston for a year and a half, back when I still wore glasses and preferred the Spice Girls to pretty much anything else. And I still rode a bike back then. (It has been a long time since I rode a bike. But that's neither here nor there.)
So, I'm riding my bike to school one day when we'd only been in Texas a few months. Strapped on my back is maybe ten pounds of books, five of which probably weren't even school related. I must have been distracted by something shiny, because all of a sudden an armadillo appears right on the sidewalk in front of me.
A fucking armadillo.
I swerve, and the weight of the nerd on my back throws me off balance, and I fall face to face with this disturbing looking creature. He stared at me with his twisted little eyes, and I swear he smirked at me before he scurried past and left me struggling to drag myself, my bike, and my backpack off the concrete.
Moral of the story:
Armadillos are assholes.
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