Currently, one of my favorite things to rant about is the F Bus. The F bus takes me to and from campus each day. That is where its usefullness ends. It's inevitably late or early, depending on whichever inconveniences me the most. And it always smells like something unpleasant, ranging from body odor to urine to weird chemical smells.
The best (read: worst) part about the F Bus, however, are its passengers. There are several other students like and unlike myself who are also forced to ride the F Bus. Then, there are the good people of Carrboro and Chapel Hill. They are quite the playbill, let me tell you. But I'll get to them another day.
This morning I was sitting in my usual spot, minding my own business, when Plaid Shirt Guy sits next to me. I'm going to call him Farmer John, because this shirt was
atrocious, not cute in-style plaid, and he was all
crinkly. I hate crinkly shirts.
(Let me interject here, before some of you start feeling bad for Farmer John. I told you I only pick on the irritating, the rude, the pretentious, and the generally awful. I'm getting to that part. You'll learn.)
So Farmer John sits down. I hate sitting next to strangers on the F Bus. They are rarely normal people. But I generally tolerate them because most of the time, people understand personal space and how to maintain it, supposing they are not morbidly obese and therefore incapable of doing so in a tiny bus seat. Farmer John did not understand personal space.
He sits with his legs sprawled out and bent forward, maximizing the amount of contact between his thigh and mine. This was the first strike. Then, each time the bus stopped (it was one of the brake-happy drivers) it forced his weight into mine. And of course, I was trapped against the edge of the seat. This continued for several minutes and my frustration with Farmer John reached critical mass. Finally, he seemed to realize that if he sat back in the seat like a civilized person, we both fit perfectly comfortably without the awkward warmth that is another person's thigh. I wanted to applaud him.
Mercifully, soon after, we reached my stop. Of course Farmer John got off, somehow cutting me off and reaching the door first. I growled a little.
Then, as a final blow to my sanity, he smacks me in the head while letting go of the handle from the bus stairs. "I hate you, Farmer John," I scowled, as I passed him on the sidewalk as quickly as possible to avoid any further contact. His shirt was still crinkly.
This may seem like a minor incident. But, I really hate people. Particularly those that touch me. Maybe I'll write a book about Bus Etiquette someday... though it wouldn't do any good. Half the people on the F Bus can't speak English. Or read, probably.
Snarkily Yours.
