The Real-Life Struggle Bus

Sweat drips down my back,
Feels like a hundred degrees.Carrying textbooks in my pack;
They might as well be rocks.

Can’t last much longer;
Does anyone have any water?
About to faint when I hear
That blessed squeal
Of bus brakes on wheels.

About to cry, I climb in,
Reveling in the air conditioning.
Didn’t look nor care
Into which bus I had climbed.
Collapsing with relief on my derriere,
I found myself killing time.

You see, I boarded the wrong bus.
For the next half an hour,I rode across the campus,
Desperately searching for the number 5.

I guess the lesson from this
Most unfortunate misadventure
Is don’t worry about the bus you miss,Always take note of the number!

So I decided to ride the sleek Wolfline bus here at NC State yesterday, thinking to save my blistering feet from my unforgiving Sperry’s. What I failed to realize is that the number on the bus has overwhelming importance as to the bus’ destination.

I climbed onto the first one that swung around the corner, wholly unconcerned with the forbidding “Gorman Street” destination flashing above the driver’s seat in neon puke-yellow lights.

Aw, I thought. Not an issue. I’ll just pull the handy dandy yellow “Please Stop” string when we’re about to pass my stop!

Sadly, this bus didn’t even come within a block of my desired location. Instead, I somehow found myself in the Greek Village, a little island of overdecorated cottages and loud partygoers out about 20 minutes from the West Deck (Where my car forlornly squatted, wondering whether I had abandoned her. Poor Cranberry.).

I climbed off, looking around looking much like an owl in wide-eyed wonder. As the bus pulled out, I crouched on the curb, praying for the blessed number 5 (The Varsity bus that I should have climbed onto originally). Instead, I got the number 2.

After taking my seat inside, I learned from a fellow bus-goer that only the number 2 and number 9 (the Gorman Street bus) go to this particular stop. Just my luck.

And so I found myself on the Avent Ferry bus, which carried me ever further from the West Deck. I distantly wondered if and how long the cracker crumbs in my backpack would sustain me here in the wilds of bus country.

After what felt like an eternity later (but in actuality was about 10-20 minutes), I happened to glance out the window and realized with great joy that I actually recognized the terrain outside.

“Stop the bus!” I cried ecstatically as I leaped out of my seat. (If I’m being honest, I neither said anything nor did I leap. This was all in my head. I merely reached up and pulled on the yellow “let me out” string.)

I nearly fell to my knees crying tears of happiness as I stepped onto solid ground, leaving my temporary mobile home for good.

I strode away from that bus stop that day, blisters and all, reveling in the feel of the wind on my cheek, the sweat on my back, and yes, even the sharp pains that were shooting up from my torn-up feet and nearly making me cry from the fire burning up my heels.

All in all, it was a good day. Surprisingly, it didn’t keep me from getting on the bus today. A bit of awareness saves a girl a lot of trouble 😉

Watch out for those buses, y’all. They’ll getcha

PS – I just realized something…I rode the real-life struggle bus! HAHA I’M SO PUNNY! Ok that will be all.


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