The Mad World

The problem with buses is not that they’re slow, or late, or that the windows are always either jammed open or jammed shut but nothing in between, so you either sweat like a rapist the whole trip, or have to clench your hands over your ears to stop the wind whistling a path up to your brain.

No, the problem with buses is the general flotsam and jetsam who take the bus with you. People who fall asleep with their mouths open, or take more than half of the seat you are sharing, bus drivers who have Love or Hate prison tatts, and then regular old crazies who decide to talk as loudly and bitchily as possible in the hopes of engaging some poor hopeless norm in conversation. Things like “Ooh, that was a tight corner” to “How does the blind guy get around, it’s amazing” to “this bus driver can’t fucking drive”.

Let me just say something to you, Crazy. First of all: I’m also really impressed by the self-sufficiency of the blind guy, what a totally rad dude, such respect, and Second of all: SHUT UP, the bus driver can totally hear you and do you know how MEAN that is? You probably don’t; you probably have no idea just how hurtful your words are to our poor bus driver. Because even though he has totally fierce prison tatts, he’s not a criminal, he’s a real man, he probably only went to jail for one of those victimless crimes like shooting a lawyer or shaking a baby. So as I was saying, Crazy, you have no idea about when your actions might be cruel, because you’re a Crazy.

This leads me to my final illuminating subpoint: why are crazy people so rude? Because if they were nicer, we’d call them eccentric. Cram that thought down your throat and smoke it, READER.

I love how this entry makes me sound like the sort of person who rides buses when it reality I am NOTHING LIKE YOU.

Ouchie.

• Not notice it and end up in a background shot, either scratching my head or gazing dumbstruck into the mid-distance, biting my nails or playing with my split ends.
• Have some lame, ugly, not even cute-Asian-style sticker somewhere on my person. There is something about the combination of Jess, parties and cameras that unleashes this crazy sticker frenzy within. “A cheap paper sticker that I found in Reader’s Digest that’s basically an ugly white square with a golden record and the word ‘WIN!’ on it? YES PLEASE!”.
• I’m holding some sort of food, often multiple foods, a grin of gluttenous delight stretching skeleton-like across my shining cheeks.
• Ditto but alcohol.
• My head is at a variety of angles: the old chin-to-neck, the head-to-the-side-like-I-just-want-to-get-as-close-to-my-friend-as-poss, or any other asymetrical configuration.
• One of my eyes is a shiny demonic pink. Always one. Never two. One.
• My arm is awkwardly grasped around someone’s neck or shoulder and they look a little bit uncomfortable about the whole thing. I JUST WANT THEM TO LOVE ME, IT’S NOT THAT MUCH TO ASK YOU HEARTLESS DRAGONS.
• There’s hair in my face or mouth.
• You can see the painful attempt in my eyes to remember the Essentail Mantra to Produce Good Photos: “JUST LOOK AT THE CAMERA, THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS, AND SAY HI TO IT.

I have photo evidence of each of the above points, if any of my MANY HUNDREDS OF READERS would like a looksy.