Hi there. You are, right now, wondering why there’s no Friday review up yet. Of course you are. You’re one of the five people who read my blog. Six, if I count Mom. Hi, Mom.
Well, let me tell you. I’ve got a review together. It’ll go up later. Today, for a limited time only, I want to vent about my morning. No, no, stick around. It’s funny. Horrible, but funny.
I woke up at six o’clock this morning, so I could bus into work (thirty five miles away from where I live and down an interstate highway. The Things We Do For Job.) and still somehow deposit my paycheck, which I needed right in the bankhole for rent-paying purposes. You can already guess from the past tense how this is going.
Before boarding my second bus of the day, I had a huge cup of coffee. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
This bus is about an hour’s ride. Yes, you read that right. I am on a bus, on an interstate highway, for a solid fucking hour. In this case I was on it for longer, because traffic was blocked for about three exits. Just more fun, right?
Wait for it. Because on the middle of a highway, on a public fucking bus, in the middle of editing Little Bird, I get motion sick. This is what happens when you drink thirty ounces of coffee, eat nothing, and stare at a computer screen on a moving vehicle. Yes, I’m an idiot. Thank you, Aunt Tilly.
I held it in. For about an hour I curl up as tight as I can on a bus seat, recite Bene Gesserit mantras about fear being the mind killer, and bus-vomming the little death that brings total obliteration. Somehow, I make it. At which point, staggering off the bus, I do a three point turn and projectile vomit into a trash can by a bus station.
The bums were staring at me. The bums found this socially unacceptable. I spent about five dollars on a bottle of water and two of those little Colgate Wisp things, which until then I had always thought were completely useless, and which I now think are the prickly dwarf-toothbrushes of the GODS. I staggered on through the station and straight the fuck onto the next bus. At least it’s not likely to happen again, right?
Wrong. When you’re on a bus, and the street’s only about twenty feet wide, there is no horizon line to stare at.
I stop at the bank, stagger off this new bus. Dry heave into the geraniums in front of the building. Accrue some scathing looks from rich bitches in the parking lot wearing what looked like matching tennis bracelets. I stagger into the bank.
I didn’t cash my paycheck, however, because it was no longer in my purse.
I reached for my phone to call Definitely Not Dave. I wanted to at least make sure it was safe at home, and not in a vomit-colored pile at the bottom of a trash can in downtown Raleigh.
My phone wasn’t in there either.
The bus from the bank was very late. Did I mention that every bus I took today–every single fucking bus–was fifteen minutes late? So I can’t call in. I have to just show up ten minutes late for work. Which is unbelievably rude. And which I try never, ever to do. Because it’s unprofessional. And just plain rude. If people are counting on you to be somewhere on time, you should be there.
The good news is, I’m feeling better now. No more coffee for me for a long damn time. I called Definitely Not Dave from the shop, and my check and my phone are both sitting safely underneath right the hell where my purse was. And I have my card on me, so at least I’m not stranded in The Big Shitty with no money and no way to get home.
Am I an idiot? Yes. Most unreservedly yes. I should check my purse before I leave the house. But do I deserve this shit? No. I’m a nice person. Basically. More or less. Where it counts. Life, however, is not fair, and you never know when you’re going to wind up puking in front of a bus station.
Also, Mom, because I know you’re reading this and wondering: my bloodsugar is 137. I’m just fine, sugarwise. I blame the coffee and the writing.