The life of a papier-mâché pink-unicorn-cycle is a sad one. You spend most of your time on earth being pedaled around by some sandalwood-smelling fat-ass. And then when she’s done with you she just abandons you in front of an East Village McDonald’s like it’s a cul de sac in Hilldale Ridge and there isn’t a gang of teenage Loisaidas waiting to détourné your ass back to glue and newspaper.

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