Dear Motorcycle Ninja Babe,

i think you're super. and by super i mean hot. do you understand 'hot?' no, not like the weather, like ummm you. you're just hot, ok? everyday i see you ride by me on your cool motorcycle...huh? no, 'hot' and 'cool' aren't opposites, they both mean i think you're hot. i don't know how you do it, but it's like i see you in more than one place at the same time. my friends tell me that you're actually different people, but i tell them that they're just showing their ignorance of the ancient martial art of ninjitsu. i hate ignorant people, don't you? i don't know though...i can't tell you people apart anyway.

i know everyone here has a motorcycle, but yours is awesome. it's way better than all the rest. why? because you're on it, and you are a motorcycle ninja babe. you straddle that vibrating urban rocket-on-wheels, weaving in and out of the sea of inferior motorcycles while sitting perfectly straight, with your arms firmly stretched and confidently gripping the handle bars, prepared to leap off doing a spinning back flip while chucking throwing stars at any moment. i think that would be really sexy if you did that.

during the day, you wear your school uniform, a white skin tight dress with long tails that you tuck underneath you. even though i think it would be awesome if it got caught in the wheel and ripped off, it's smart that you tuck it away. i bet if you spoke english you'd be the smartest girl in the world. on the weekends, you like to wear your casual 'going out' clothes. you know, those butt-hugging jeans with a top that make me believe they must be made from some kind of space-age flame retardant super material. no, not that kind of retarded...well kinda, but it's hard to explain... just let me finish: it's because you're so hot. yeah, it's called a pun.

the gloves must be made from the same material, stretching just past your elbow like the gloves the ladies would wear at a burlesque house, or a masquerade party. of course you wear a mask as well, to conceal your identity. even though you insist it's just to prevent lung cancer, you can't fool me; you're invincible, totally immune to the toxic fumes that permeate throughout this city. all i can see behind the mask is a faint outline of an almost freakishly petite little nose... no, babe, 'freakishly' means it's awesome. and your dagger-like eyes, constantly scanning the environment, are intensely focused on your business...the business of killing. specifically, ripping out and selling my still beating heart.

i don't care that you're trying to kill me, we can work these things out. and i don't care about the fact that you know less than 50 english words either. i promise you, we can smile and nod our way through an entire conversation about pretty much anything: politics, economics, existentialism... i've done it before. and so what if i don't have a motorcycle, i figure i can just hop on the back of yours, squeezing you tightly with both arms as we ride off into the hypothetical sunset. motorcycle ninja babe, i think i love you.



head over heels for you,

mat