All Pinball Wizards Have Handicaps Eventually

I hate Bus Tracker. I hate you. Bus Tracker can suck it, and the CTA can suck it, and the Western bus can suck it, and they can all have a suck party together where they sit around and fucking suck. And I will make winter my bitch without their help. I shove my hands into pockets and kick invisible dirt just to get the blood flowing. Frozen jeans sting my calves because they are HORSESHIT. I kick through some snow out into the street and look southward. There is no bus.

There should have been a bus six...no...seven minutes ago. It should have stopped right where I'm standing and I should be riding it to my goddamn party, because Bus Tracker told me it would be here. This is the last fucking time I trust that piece of shit website. Maybe I should take a cab.

Impossible. Expensive and impossible.

After six or seven more minutes, the bus stop fills up with more commuters taking advantage of the New Years Eve penny rides. I give some of them directions to their party on whatever crossroads. The bus arrives. People who've been here for two minutes try to muscle their way to the front of the pack.

Assholes.

They probably usually take the train. I don't like it when train people get on the bus. Bus people wait their turn, they remember who was at the stop before them. There's an unspoken boarding hierarchy amongst bus riders. But these fucking train people got no respect. They don't care that I've been freezing for over ten minutes in temperature that's half that.

Once safely on board, all of us passengers do that thing where we're fake polite to each other, professing that we don't require only available seat, really, it's not necessary. You should take it. No, I insist. Sit down. Take it.

Really, of course, we don't want to sit next to the sleeping garbage bag man who smells like hopeless homelessness, but that's it, of course. We have important parties to go to, with alcohol packages and pulled pork. We don't want gutter stench on our new jeans. It's not because he's black. No, really. Do people think we're racist because we don't want to sit next to the stanky homeless man? Because if he was white we wouldn't want to sit there either.

The bus jolts and rocks back, and I fall into the empty seat, but I totally make it look like I meant to sit down. Seriously. The smelly guy twitches, and I catch a moldy hospital bracelet on his wrist. What was he in there for? How long has that been on his arm? There's some sort of fungal infection thing growing on his fingernail - did he go to the hospital for that?

The guy on the other side of me is talking abrasively on the phone to his daughter. April. "Happy New Year, April! Of course you're my favorite daughter. April, honey, daddy wants to know if you need a piano? Well, I got one lined up if you need it, and April? You know what? It's only three years old. Yap. It's a nice one, April. Daddy thinks you would like it. I just want the best for my girl." The whole thing is very annoying. Who uses someone's name so often in a conversation? Why does he refer to himself in the third person? Why isn't there a rule that people with thin-pitched voices are legally required to have their larynx removed and thrown in a jar?

I feel like an asshole. I can't think about anything except that rotten smell raping my nose, the shrill discord of that man's voice. I feel guilty for having running water and superb intonation, and then I feel guilty for having guilt, and then I feel like an asshole again and tell myself to suck it up, when someone touches my knee. It's April's dad.

"Hey there," he smiles. "You wouldn't be innerested in a pinball machine?"

I blink.

"S'just that I have this pinball machine, see, and I was gonna give it to my daughter, but she don't have room, see. So you wannit?"

"I don't think I have a place to keep a pinball machine."

"Oh, I'm sure you could figger it out."

"I don't think I could afford a pinball machine."

"Well you won't really have to pay for it, you see, cuz I got it fer free. I figger you could throw me fifty bucks - cash or check, I ain't picky - and then we'd work it out from there. What's yer address?"

"Ahhhh - no," I laugh, "I'm not sure I want it."

"Well it's a perfectly good machine, almost new. The lady who gave it to me is moving, see, and she had a pinball machine and a piano to get rid of because daughter sliced off her hands."

I blink.

"Yeah, pretty spooky? Yeah, both of 'em, yeah, they got sliced right off in a car accident or something, but I guess this little girl used to be something of a fishindo. A-uh-fishiando. Fishiando. Affishianado."

I blink.

"And so now this poor little girl loses both of 'er hands, and her mom wants ta get rid o' the piano and the pinball machine what remind her o' havin' hands."

"Wow."

"Heavy, huh? Makes you think. But this little girl has got some of those posterpedic hands now, you know?"

"Prosthetic?"

"That's the one, and they snap right on at her wrists and hold onto her nerve endings and they look real, you know? But she can move fingers and everything. They look so real." He leans towards me, quieting his voice slightly. "Guess how much they cost? Huh?" He licks his lips and leans back haughtily. "Twenty fucking grand apiece."

"Wow."

He nods. "Yep. Twenty fucking grand. Each. Per a la hand!"

"And she still can't play pinball."

"No ma'am, she don't want to. Reminds her of back when."

"Wow." I nod, and look out the window, trying to gauge how much longer it'll take for me to get to the bar and get my drink on. Soon.

"'So what d'ya say? I could drop 'em off at yer place on Saturdee."

"I don't think so." I don't want your cursed pinball machine, sir. I like having hands. I consider asking him what kind of pinball machine, as if that would make a difference at all, and decide that the less I say the better.

"Ya sure? Fifty bucks. I need the money now, though, you know. Make sure you're legit."

I can't believe this. "Maybe. You got a card?"

"You know what? No, I do not. I should though, but I left all of 'em at my office."

"Uh huh." I nod. One more stop. The homeless guy next to me shifts slightly. "Well, I get off at the next stop."

"Ya still sure? You could just give me your phone number and address. Will you be home on Saturdee?"

"I'm really not interested," I shake my head and pull the stop cord. "Happy New Year, though."

"Okay, well, happy New Year to you too, young lady."

I smile, steel my arms, and start bullying my way off the bus.

...

Take That, Rain.

The handle of my umbrella juts out of the corner of my purse when it's not raining. Sure, I have a smaller, lighter umbrella that I could carry, but it's all cockamamie and horsefeathers and gets lazy and inverted way too easily. Passive, weak, piece of shit umbrella.

I've been trucking around with the good one for over a week and I never get to use it. I keep missing the rain by minutes. The rain knows, I think, that my umbrella would whoop its ass.

So instead, I strut around the Loop in pinstripe pants and dirty Pumas, the staple of office-hour commuters, grasping the handle of my umbrella at my waist like the hilt of a sword.

I hawk at the sky, challenging the clouds.

Try me. I dare you.

At least until the bus gets here.

...

The Turkey Man and the People of the Bus

Some of you may be unaware, but for some reason, I have a face that appeals to those with serious mental issues.

Yesterday I sat on the bus, as I have a tendency to do. Had the good fortune to sit next to a man whose surface appeared normal. General clothing, lacking garish colors and/or scents, middle-aged man. Hat and glasses.

I'm sitting for about thirty seconds, enough time to pull out a book that is slightly obscure, and not necessarily very well-written, but approachable. With a nice cover.

The man next to me slowly reaches forward and grabs the handle of the headrest of the seat in front of him and squeezes. I can feel him tense up next to me. Coiling.

I do that thing where you move your eyes as far to the side as possible without moving your head and watch his chest rise as he takes a dramatic breath.

"HELLO, BUS PEOPLE! I am the TURKEY MAN!" He sounds like the casually discarded spawn of Charles Nelson Reilly and Pat Carroll. "Everybody, raise up your hands. For I am the TURKEY MAN, and THANKSGIVING...is upon us. RAISE YOUR HANDS!"

His arms flare up and sweep my sleeve on the way. My head follows the path my eyes previously traveled. I stare at him. He smiles at me, and takes another deep breath, eyes wide and voice all harsh and flaming: "Tomorrow, I shall stretch out my wings. I will be going to OLD COUNTRY BUFFET! For I am the TURKEY MAN, and I am NEEDED!"

Obviously, this man is an oratory genius. I start laughing. I can't help it.

His eyes open wider (is that even possible?) "GIVE ME YOUR TURKEYS! Tell me where you will be next week, and I WILL STOP BY AND SHARE MY LEFTOVERS!"

I am furiously texting every single person in my phone:

Text To: fucking everyone
The guy next to me on the bus keeps on telling me he's the turkey man.
And that he's going to wear his wings to old country buffet tomorrow. GAHH.

"I will come over on MONDAY, People Of The Bus! For I...AM THE TURKEY MAN!"

Text From: Adam, Bald
Its all sorts of spring break up in this Thanksgiving! Hook a bratha up

"THE TURKEY MAN REQUESTS: The afternoon of Thanksgiving, what will you be..."

"Shut up." Uh oh. The People of the Bus are starting to get rowdy.

"TURKEY MAN! I AM THE TURKEY MAN! PEOPLE OF THE BUS! I AM THE TURKEY MAN! You will respect me. TURKEY!"

Text From: Eli
Ask him for a bite.

Text From: Kristen
Hahaha omg dont eat or drink anything he gives you

I glance over at the Turkey Man. He is crazy for bird flesh. Say something. Say something clever. Be clever, dammit. You have to do something clever so you can write about it on your blog. Dammit, have I started defining myself through the internet aga--

"The afternoon of Thanksgiving! It is of GREAT IMPORTANCE! REMEMBER THE TURKEY! Afternoons will now be measured in TURKEYS! They will be measured in...COFFEESPOONS!"

Text From: Schmee
God the crazys love you

Text From: Muffy
Dude. Ridic.

"Aaaaafternoo-oo-oons! Will be measured out, measured with...coo-o-o-ffeespoo-ooo-ooons!"

Is he singing Crash Test Dummies?

"I AM SINGING CRASH TEST DUMMIES!"

Yes he is.

"Because I am...THE TURKEY MAN!"

Text From: MoLinder
Haha. I'm drinking for free. Auxsome beer

The bus intercom crackles into play. "Sir. SIR. You are disrupting the bus."

The Turkey Man lifts his hand to his lips.

Text From: Xtine
You should have told him to stick a duck in it

Bus Driver continues,"Sir, please refrain from raising your voice."

The Turkey man slyly gazes at me and giggles, then whispers in rapid fire: "IamtheTurkeyMan." His eyes rotate down towards his hand.

Text To: A fuckload of people
HE IS LICKING THE BACK OF HIS HAND AND SLURPING

The crazies love me, man. I bring it out in them.

...

I Don't Understand.

There are many things I don't understand.

I don't understand why I have to work late, and I don't get paid for it. No, that's a lie. It's because I dick around online checking blogs all fucking day when there's work to be done. At least I finish it.

I don't understand why people feel awkward around me, because I don't feel awkward, but I hear it. I can hear it in their eyes: You are awkward. Why are you like that?

I don't understand why people just stand there.

Today, I left work at seven, because like I said, I was dicking around all day. I'm walking towards the bus stop, and I see someone lying on the ground. Convulsing. He was having a seizure. I watched people step over him, make eye contact with each other and glancing sideways at the convulsing man.

So I fucking speed up and hustle over there. There are people waiting for the bus, standing there, trying not to stare. Ten, twelve feet away. What the hell is their problem? GET OVER THERE. HELP HIM.

And then? I hesitated.

Shame on me. Never hesitate, what am I doing? Get over there.

Reaching his side, I kneel down. He's obviously homeless, because I can smell it on him, and has a blanket next to him and a bag of some kind of crap (I should be a detective, with these mad skills). His face is covered in spit and saliva, and he's choking. On his tongue. I put my hand on his chest and his eyes snap open, he's shaking harder. Turn him on his side, and he starts coughing up all over his blanket.

I glare over at the bus stop commuters. "Hey, can someone call the paramedics?"

Blank stares.

"Excuse me, please, can someone call the paramedics?"

One pedestrian looks perplexed. "Oh, um, I don't know if I have my phone." She turns to the woman next to her. "Can you..."

"I don't know, what can I do?" She shrugs. "But we should do something."

Yeah, you should. Fuck you, assholes. I watched you watch him. My patience is wearing thin. "If you need a phone, you can use--"

"Do you need help? Is he okay?" It's one of the men I watched step over him. Homeless Man starts shaking again. I put my hand on his back. What the fuck do you do for a seizure? Shit. I can't remember. Goddammit. I should pay more attention.

"Does he look okay? Can you call 911?"

A security guard from the building runs over. "I saw from the window. The paramedics are on their way."

"Does anyone know what to do for a seizure?" I ask the gathering crowd. Some look disgusted. With good reason, this guy was a fucking mess. Slobbering like Hooch, shaking like a...I don't even know, something that fucking shakes, I don't know. Polaroid picture.

"Oh, um...no."

"Should he bite on something?"

"CPR?"

"No, um...what you're doing. What you're doing is good."

This goes on for several minutes, with people standing around staring, Homeless Man coughing. I use his blanket to wipe off his face. Eventually he stops convulsing, and closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. He looks at me, and I smile. He struggles to sit up, and I try to keep him on his side, but he's fucking adamant.

"It's okay. Just sit for awhile."

He freaks out. Jumps to his feet, and the crowd jumps back, gasping. I walk over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Sit down. It's all right."

He does this crazy shimmy, like a dog after a swim, and waddles to get his bearings. He looks at me, shakes his head. Points at me and smiles a little. Creepily, though, because he's got saliva smeared all over his face. Then he sighs, deeply, quickly, growling slightly. Does another dog shimmy, jumps twice, waves, and runs into traffic.

He weaves throughout the speeding cars, and they're honking. That bastard was nimble. He gets to the other side of the street, turns and waves at me again, and takes off at a run.

Well, now what the fuck do I do? All of his shit is there, the paramedics are on their way. And a crowd around me, sniggering, leaving. I can't even move, I just stand there and stare after him, and then I realize I'm crying.

I don't understand why nothing I do goes right.

...

Umbrella drama.

I'm assuming that it's normal for people to get really excited about a new blog template. Which explains my apathy.

I'll figure it out.

So, if a statistician were to choose the subset of human dregs at my bus stop to represent the people of Earth in a study, she would realize that people are assholes.

It was raining today. Six of the eight of us have umbrellas. Given my luck with umbrellas, I was not one of them. Pretty sure I've gone through no less than six and no more than eight umbrellas in the past twelve months. The most recent two were last seen (a) careening down Milwaukee Avenue and (b) in the hands of a guy who sleeps in doorways somewhere on Western*. You would think that one of these people would offer to share their shelter, either with me or the old man sitting on the bench. Just out of courtesy, you know. Long gone are the days of sharing cabs with strangers.

After half an hour of cowering under some tree branches I looked down the street and realized that the 56 wasn't going to get there until LOST gave us answers, so I took a chance. I walked over to CVS, bought another umbrella, and smiled when everyone was still at the bus stop. Bus still far.

So I walked over to the old guy on the bench who was also sans umbrella and smiled and said, "You want in on this?" while I held it over his head. You know, because I'm a good person.

Duder looks at me and growls, "Whatgoddamnever," sticks out his underbite and scowls.

Prick.

I still held it over his head out of sheer spite while he scratched himself. Fucker getting all dry and shriveled now? Good.

Oh, and I totally broke my umbrella when I tried to close it.


*Just a little post script: sometimes I get drunk, give shit away, and waste the next day in a hungover fox hunt.


...

Forecast for today: Rassles vs. The World

Round 1: Rassles vs. Fahrenheit

Spent twenty-five minutes waiting for the bus today. Not gonna lie, it's slightly chilly outside. Wandered around on top of the Blue Line sidewalk vents for awhile, watching the heat shimmy out of them, warming up. Pocketed hands, doing a little foot jig, loose knees to avoid the cold pants syndrome (cold pants vs. flesh: cold pants always wins), face the sun: smile. Don't shiver. Be calm and the cold counts for shit. I love this. It's like my will against Fahrenheit, and I dominated.

Celsius' got nothing. Celsius is a little whiny flyweight, all, "Oh, water is freezing and it's zero degrees, waaaaah," and then Fahrenheit is all, "Stop being such a nerd, it's like thirty-two." Ah, but little does she know, Fahrenheit fights middleweight, and I'm kind of heavy.

Can't compete with Kelvin, though. Kelvin is like, the ultimate fighting heavyweight champion of the thermodynamic universe. Not gonna fuck with Absolute Zero. "Oh, you haven't heard of isotropic expansion? It's kind of a big deal."

So I psyched myself up to stay warm and beat the fuck out of Fahrenheit, no contest, I win.

Final score: Rassles: 10, Fahrenheit: -2


Round 2: Rassles vs. The Badger

I squeeze onto the third bus to pass my way and thank the driver, then two stops later he pulls over again to get some more fighters (who are losing, by the way). This woman with penciled eyebrows and a badger-fur coat (she probably fired her driver) starts snapping at the bus driver and everyone on the bus.

"You have got to be kidding me! This is ridiculous. Hello? Hello, driver? This is ridiculous, we have been waiting for half an hour and two busses have refused to pick us up. You can't operate like this. Can you guys move down? You're not the only people with places to go…"

Driver jumps in, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, I have no control over—"

"This is unacceptable, I have no room. MOVE DOWN, PEOPLE!" This continues for about twenty seconds and then the bus starts, with Badger Woman still arguing.

I can't help myself, "You know lady, don't blame the driver. He probably wishes he never picked you up."

Why doesn't she fucking sell her goddamn coat and take a taxi? I didn't have the balls to say it. Should have.

I did not shut her up, she kept on muttering. Except now it was about me and my nerve and rudeness. I got a few snickers and smiles, though, and everyone was just rolling their eyes at her and trying to ignore her.

Final Score: Rassles: 1, The Badger: 0.


Round 3: Rassles vs. Pregnancy

We have a fairly new employee at the front desk of our building. She's been there for about a month and a half, and I haven't learned her name yet, partly because she has kind of a thick accent and I don't understand about forty percent of what she's saying.

I went out to pick up lunch today, and on my way back in I had to wait for the elevator. So, small talk with front desk girl.

"So how ya doin?"

"I am good, you?"

"Not bad. Lunch time."

"Ah, I see. How is ze baby?"

I am puzzled. "Wha?"

"Ze baby, right? Is it good?"

"Um, yeah."

"That's good. Do you know what it is?"

"Mmm?"

"It is boy or girl?"

"Oh, um, I don't know."

Thank god, fucking elevator. What the hell was that conversation about? I mean, does...is she insinuating that I'm pregnant? I mean, seriously, who the hell does she think she is? Fucking assuming bitch. Lame.

I'm sitting at my desk fuming for the rest of the workday.

What the fuck, man? Seriously? Asshole move. Dick. Whatever. I'm getting no work done. I have The Dread. Can't leave the building later because I'll have to see her again and she fucking thinks I'm fucking pregnant. I mean, I know I've been putting on weight and everything due to bad food and no exercise...is she just being mean? Do I seriously look completely pregnant? Where's my reflection? Yes. I do look pregnant. Lame. Shit. When am I due? Oh, sometime next week. That bitch is right. Fuck. I have to start sucking in more. Scratch that, eat healthy. Exercise tonight. Move down a weight class. Yeah. We'll show her.

So when work is over I head back down to the lobby, and she's sitting there reading a magazine. I'm pissed. I march right up to her.

"You know, I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat. I know that I'm gaining weight and it sucks because last year I actually lost weight and now it's just coming back and I just needed you to know that."

She looks completely awestruck. I'm smirking in my head, because I won again.

"I am so sorry," she starts like, stuttering. "I did not mean you...your boss, Josh, his wife is pregnant, yes?"

Oh Fuck. "…yeah."

"I mean she is knowing if it is boy or girl? Is going good?"

"Oh. Yeah. It's fine. I uhhh…I gotta go. Um, have a good one." And I run out the revolving door.

Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid.

Final Score: Rassles: -273.16, Pregnancy: 1.

...

Forecast for tomorrow: Rassles vs. LOST.

Fuck yeah, LOST.

...

In which I describe my attachment to office supplies and an umbrella shows me who’s boss.

Paper clips, although shiny, usually don’t kick up any sort of immediate response in me. Emotionally. But this one is better. Stronger. Faster. Well-balanced, light weight, and slightly thinner than your average paper clip. Better. Of course, I don’t want to use it on just any stack of paper. If I snag him, I set him aside and wait for a really good group of letters or a bigger donation or a draft that I’m particularly proud of. Something worthy.

I’m worried that someday someone will discover its superiority and switch it out with a normal paper clip, hoping I don’t notice. I fucking would, you bastards, and I won’t rest until it’s back. Clip thievery is a serious offense, and I’ll make sure that you only have access to the shitty dull scissors and the really thin tipped pens that feel scratchy no matter what you’re writing on.

Thanks for bearing with that.

On another note, I also have to purchase a new umbrella, because on Tuesday night my last one thought it would be hifuckinlarious to make friends with the Northwest Wind and invert the shit out of itself and drag me backwards up Franklin.

I finally snap the thing back into place and the shaft and handle are all buckled and warped at this awkward 45 degree angle under the umbrella top, which, of course, is as loose as a hooker in Vegas, or a belt on Thanksgiving. So I have to hold the metal skeleton of the umbrella top as well as the handle to avoid further inversion. Eventually the bus comes and I don’t need to worry about the rain.

Then Wednesday morning I’m waiting for the bus in the rain again, focusing all of my attention on keeping the remains of my umbrella frame as attached as possible until I get on the bus. And goddammit if that stubborn-ass umbrella doesn’t flip all inside out and upside down and truck me down the street all over again. Lame.

Of course, that drunken bastard Northwest Wind comes over all windy-like and snaps the damn umbrella top clean off and leaves me standing there at my bus stop holding a twisted metal umbrella handle. I whirling-dervish for about ten seconds and challenge the 56 bus sign to a duel. Broken umbrella shafts seemingly do not hold up to the strain of a swordfight. I’m all pissed off and look up the street to watch the carcass of my umbrella top freewheel down Milwaukee and scratch past bikers. Not fucking cool.

...

Yeah, they said that would happen in health class.

Definitely watched about three buses pass me by this morning. After the third drive by I started getting a little irritated. So I called out to my fellow transitors, "Where you guys headed?" At first people just kind of stared at me like I was the crazy person to avoid standing next to once we squooshed our way onto the next bus, so I added, "I'm going to Washington and Franklin. Anyone else headed that way?"

So this short woman was all, "Yeah, I'm just two blocks south of there."<

"Cool. Wanna split a cab?" I'm not gonna lie, I had to struggle to avoid suggesting we "go halfsies."

She laughs, "I guess."

"Anyone else wanna split a cab? Heading to the Loop?"

Some thirtysomething suit agreed to share with us 'cause he was going to Ogilvie, and then this other younger chick asked if she hitch too.

So we hailed a cab and piled on top of each other in the back seat, with the suit riding up front. Gave the cabbie directions, awkwardly introduced ourselves, made small talk about our jobs etc. etc. Cost me a whole three dollars, and in the end, was huge success.

Got to work and was almost immediately informed that before the end of the day I would be in possession of two tickets to the Cubs game tomorrow night, row ten, right behind first base.

Work ended, walked over to River East 21 and caught the 5:30 showing of Superbad, fun, with my supercool roomie.

So what we've learned today is this: I win.

...

Titanic, tricksy, tramp tramp trampy tramp. Thief. Lame.

This morning on the Milwaukee bus a giant woman was staring at me. Now, I’m a substantially wide person, but she easily doubled me. She was all kinds of scrupulous. Kinda freaked me out. I mean, she glared for a good like five minutes. I'm already kind of self-conscious right now since I'm peeling all over my chest and arms from the fucking sunburn and my hand looks like I store it in a barrel of acid while I sleep and I kind of feel like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.

So of course my inner reaction to this staring is all, "What the fuck now? Is something on my face? Have I been marked like Cain? Does she recognize me? She thinks I look funny? I should buy her a mirror. Lame." Etc. etc. etc.

But this bitch-whore was totally glaring. I don't glare back because she's not making eye contact, but I fucking know she was glaring at me. She's just standing there, all assed and falling every time the bus jerks slightly, and she keeps on sighing dramatically and staring.

So I wasn't seated, I was standing, on a lower step by the back door, leaning against that little wall thing. I'm very comfortable standing there and reading Life of the Hopi, because I can lean, you know? We get to Huron Street. Strange Large Staring Woman lumbers her way through several people and politely excuses herself, because this is her exit. So I move from my spot so she can get her gluttonous frame out the door. She opens the doors, looks outside, says, to God or some other fucking invisible entity that crazy people talk to in times like these, I assume, because it wasn't to anyone I could particularly see, "Oh, this isn't my stop. My stop is the next one." She smiles all sweetly all around and looks at everyone, but they're all ignoring her but me.

Next stop comes up and she looks out the window, again speaking to goddamn no one, "Oh, well, this isn't my stop either. Isn't that funny?"

Yeah, you slutty cow, it's funny. Give me my spot back.

Another bus stop comes and goes, and the Giant Glarer has not moved. She doesn't even pretend to get off the next time, because she's all settled and leaning now in my spot instead of having to surf her way through the bus driver's earth-shattering driving skills. It's impossible for me to read my book at all. I'm getting frustrated. When is she going to get off the bus?

I look over at her. She's got her eyes closed and she's pleasantly leaning. She's not even paying attention anymore, and she doesn't have to, because she's a sneaky bastard buttfuck of a woman who fucking lied so she could lean as comfortably as I was before. I didn't steal her spot, I got on the bus before her, she just sucks. She sucks real bad.

Then she gets off on the same fucking stop as me, seventeen aching minutes later, on Wacker. Wacker. Like anyone could ever confuse Huron with Wacker. LAME. I can't even pretend that she really thought Huron was her stop. She was staring at me, formulating a plot to take advantage of my sweet and giving nature. Titanic, tricksy, tramp tramp trampy tramp that she is. Thieving piece of ugly fuck.

I vow that if I see Her Vastness ever again, I will not hesitate to cheat her out of a comfortable place on the bus.

...