At one time I thought a blog would be a great idea. When I was a young lass, like most young lasses, I used to write in a diary. Then when I went to college it became "journaling" which is basically the same idea, but done in a coffee house in hopes that you'll look smart and deep and get laid. These days I mostly just get drunk and bitch to my friends. But there was a point--possibly after my third bourbon drink--when a blog seemed perfect; a place to rant, rave, and vent. A veritable hook upon which to hang my dry wit and my droll daily observations.
Oddly enough, now I have one and it seems I have nothing to say. Everytime I think I should post something all I hear is the sound of crickets in my noggin. So, as I am prone to do, I made a list of possibilites why I am not blogging as often as I thought I would. And away we go:
1. I really don't have anything to say.
2. I'm really busy at work, and really tired when I get home.
3. I don't drink as much as I used to, and as a sober individual am finally facing the fact that I am possibly neither dry nor witty.
4. I've lost my fingers and haven't figured out how to type with me toes yet.
But by the time I'd gotten to number 4 I read swankgrl's post about mass transit sucking and that's when it hit me:
I have no stories because I don't ride the bus anymore.
From 1992-1997 I didn't have a car. I rode the bus everyday rain or shine and I liked it, goddammit. Then in '97 when I bought a car I still kept riding the bus because, well, it was easier and cheaper than driving everyday. It wasn't until 2004 that I finally decided that commuting 1 hour each direction sucked ass and I should start driving.
But with the bus riding went all the amusing and sometimes downright disgusting tales of everyday life. In my 12 years of bussing I saw some amazing things--public shittings, public hygiene (that includes flossing, nosepicking, and nail clipping), and public puking.
I've had to get off the bus on a hot day to throw up because the man next to me had both wet and crapped his pants, and was now sitting by my side, giggling. When I was unfortunate enough to live in the wasteland that is Shoreline my bus route went by a sanitarium and picked up at least one or two crazies on a daily basis. I swear to God one of them was Murph from Dinosaur Jr. He talked to himself and would suddenly turn, stare at you, and stomp off as if you'd said something about his mama. Then he would perch in his new seat, rocking back and forth as he stared at you and muttered under his breath.
I've seen a woman have a seizure, tried to ignore a girl getting finger fucked in the back of the bus, and met a guy who had answered a personal ad I'd placed years before (we'd never met in person before that because instead I began dating the man who would go on to be my husband. And then my ex-husband).
I also seem to have a disposition that says "Please, sit next to me and talk to me". Strangers, particularly those not quite right in the head,
love to tell me their life stories. I've tried to wear headphones, I used to carry a book or a crossword at all times, I've even tried to look downright mean, all to no avail. One gentleman on my local bus liked to tell me his philosophy on the timing of "walk" and "don't walk" signs. The last time I had to take mass transit, he was still there and he'd developed a new strategy--it's called jaywalking. Who knew?
Of course, the bus wasn't all bad. It's some prime people-watching territory, I got a lot more reading done back then, and I sure as heck got a lot more exercise. Best of all, I often developed crushes that typically lasted no more than three stops before he got off the bus and we had to break up. Apparently he wanted to see other people.
