It was a cold, depressing night. I was waiting for a bus at a seedy convenient store when the cops dropped by and asked me what I was doing there.
You see, my boyfriend decided to head to California on a Greyhound bus (it’s every bit as terrifying as it sounds) and I had to take him to a shady gas station for his bon voyage. Lovely, eh?
You know it will be a bad trip when it begins with a “bus stop” that has windows loaded with signs like these:
My heart was already broken knowing I wouldn’t see The Owl for quite some time. Then to add insult to injury, the 1 a.m. bus was late. So I sat up from 12:30 in the morning until 3 a.m. staring at those signs with all of the hatred an exhausted girl missing her boyfriend could muster up after, might I add, my first evening of roller derby practice with a brand new league. Folks, I have a surprising amount of hatred inside of me. At least for butchering our language, and people who have no empathy, and Nicolas Sparks and Top Gun… But I digress.
So I have to ask, yet again: Who proofs these things? It seems my dog would do a better job.