Dearest Razor Scooter Romeo,

How boldly you hailed me from your aluminum steed—a relic of recess yards and the Bush administration. The hour was two in the afternoon, the sun high, and yet your voice rang out: “Slow down, bitch! Let me take you out?”

Be still my heart, for chivalry is not dead—merely wheezing along at three miles per hour.

Your offer, crude yet oddly poetic, might have stirred something. Flattery? Confusion? A mild urge to summon Animal Control? ‘Tis difficult to say. Yet I cannot let pass the most curious aspect of thy pursuit—thy perplexing choice of carriage.

A noble vehicle in its time—beloved by third graders, and those freshly barred from the DMV. A chariot of scraped knees and unfulfilled promises. But to ask me to abate my pace from atop this gallant glide machine felt less like a romantic proposition and more akin to a request for roadside assistance.

Didst thou envision I might hike up the hem of my cargo pants and mount behind thee, arms entwined about thy waist, as we hobbled forth to the nearest Applebee's? Or were you planning to fasten thine grip onto my belt loop as we sauntered on foot across the adjacent Walmart parking lot? Was there, dare I ask, a second scooter involved—a his-and-hers fleet of shame?

And what if our dalliance had been triumphant? Would you have offered me a ride home on your foldable stallion? Would I have had to stand on the footboard while you kick-pushed us into the night like two victims of the gig economy?

Or—and this is the scenario I can't shake—would you have simply walked your scooter beside me, letting its wheels gently click against the pavement as a haunting reminder that neither of us would ever know love?

And still… I marvel. To believe that I might forsake my forward motion for a man whose top speed could be thwarted by a pebble—such confidence is the very stuff of legend.

On transportation famously proclaimed as “speedy,” you still requested that I slow down. Thou art no mere man. Thou art unhelmeted Ponce de León on polyurethane wheels, seeking the fountain of youth at a Target clearance rack.

And maybe—just maybe—I'm the fool. Perhaps you're a prophet of the low-speed courtship economy, ushering in a new era where men rise on two-inch wheels to claim their rightful place in the dating hierarchy. Maybe one day I'll look back and realize I turned down the only man who ever truly saw me—a man who believed in himself so deeply he thought a Razor scooter wouldn't just get him there, but get him laid.

You didn't just shoot your shot. Nay, you ollied it.

Alas, my standards remain shackled to this cruel, earthbound realm—where a suitor's worth is measured not by his gall, but by whether his chosen vehicle might legally enter a bike lane.

A fortnight hath passed, and thy misguided gallantry lingers. The very belief that thou hadst a chance hath chipped away at my self-worth in ways no therapist could hope to mend.

May your bearings never rust, and may your bright pink wheels carry you swiftly to whatever woman is just defeated enough that day to say yes.

Regretfully un-scootable,
Thine Swiftly Departed Bitch