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last chance texaco |
| 2003-04-11 : 1:27 a.m. gloria |
| I hate the bus. I hate going home. I hate my pederast uncle and all seven thousand of his retarded children, and I definitely hate the amazingly odorless, tasteless, formless mass my Grandmother calls a tuna casserole and always whips up a lion’s share of for exactly these sorts of gatherings. Why couldn’t Mom wait until Thanksgiving to bring me home like a normal college parent? Three weeks into fall semester—three weeks!—I have got things to do! I bet Connie hasn’t even touched his Descartes paper yet. Bad enough I have to babysit him back in the city, I have to go home and make sure my cousins aren’t drinking paint thinner while Uncle Theo paws my sister and drinks that Pabst shit he calls beer. I hate going home. I hate this fucking bus. The small silver flask that I’m pulling out from my bag with growing frequency on this trip is really the only thing that makes tolerable the New England tourists on my left ooohing and aaahing the scenery and culture—“Oh, look honey—history! It says here that Paul Revere’s horse once took a shit on Samuel Adams’s micro-brewery right over there by the burned out shell of what may have once been a house! Take the picture, Stanley! Quick!” I feel ill. If that weren’t enough there’s enough psychotic despotic super-villains on this bus to keep Batman busy for at least four more movies. This guy sitting next to me is going through Mein Kampf with a highliter and I don’t know but I doubt it’s because he’s taking a class in German history. The gentleman across the aisle from me smiles all the time and he asks every five minutes what the mileage of the remainder of the trip is, and his fists are clenched and digging nail marks into his palms. Need I mention the screaming babies? I have seen Hell, and it looks remarkably like a Greyhound. |