Just When I Was Totally About to Start Working Out

Sometimes I wonder about the 911 call I'll make. Hi, my bike was stolen...no, I don't know what make...um...purple and teal-ish?...straight handlebars....Serial number? I like Quaker Toasted Oa...oh. No. Sorry....yes, Officer, I understand. Thank you for your time.
My landlord had left a note: "Please move your bike. You have wrecked the flowers."
At first my feelings were hurt. How passive-aggressive, I thought. And then I thought it was funny. I will passive-aggressively not move my it to see if the notes escalate. And then I meant to move it. Honestly. But it was raining, so I took my car. And then I left for Mexico and forgot I had a bike.
A week later, it was gone. My landlord assuring me in her nearly Canadian accent that she was sooorry about my bike, but that she hadn't moved it. I checked all neighboring streets and I am suspicious of every two-wheeled contraption passing by. I've also checked Craigslist to catch the thief who stole the bike I had LOCKED TO OUR WROUGHT IRON STOOP. Also, I want my note back! It's not every day I get notes, Buddy.
Happy Independence Day, Asshat. Enjoy it, because you've infringed on my constitutional right to not have anything stolen from me. I'm looking that up and then I'm coming for you.