Friday: I got stuck waiting with Impatient Bus Lady, who insisted on doing her bus waiting in the middle of the street.
Monday: The bus didn’t come for 35 minutes. It was hot. There is no cool, shady, spa-like shelter featuring oily bodybuilders wafting bergamot-scented palm fronds at my stop for some reason. So I was a sweaty, sticky mess by the time I finally rolled into work.
Today: Our brakes locked up three stops after I got on. The driver couldn’t make the bus move, though her jerky attempts to get going made us all a bit queasy. So we had to get off, find our sea legs and wait for another bus.
Tomorrow: At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably end up sitting next to a sweaty Rush Limbaugh. And you know that bitch is gonna be a seat hog. And as a drug-addled divorce junkie, he’s probably gonna be all hands.