The Interstate (Mega)Bus

By Kerry

I recently got dumped for a unicycle and a roadmap of a third world country (I would go into it, but I really don’t think I can face it right now). It’s been quite the traumatic experience, but fear not, I managed to end the whole debacle with a slew of bicycle related puns. When you are swapped in for an inanimate object, arse sores and dysentery, I believe it is important to leave the situation with dignity. But I digress the point is that I am very much ready to jump back on the Kathryn Pimps Kerry metaphorical horse.

When I say ready, I mean in the loosest of terms. Today was a good day as it marked my second tears free day. Up until yesterday I had cried at least once daily…on public transport. I don’t know what it is about public transport but it just seems to have that effect on me. Maybe it’s like motion sickness…but of the eyes.

Anyway, I’m ready. Ish.

Not only am I ready(ish) but I happen to be on a bus. Not an Interstate bus as per Kathryn’s ‘Where to Meet Men in London’ list (I’m pretty certain it is impossible to locate an interstate bus in the UK there being no states an all) but a Megabus. The London to Bristol Megabus to be exact. On the eve of a bank holiday weekend. The bank holiday weekend…the Easter one. Yup, if I can’t find me a man on this here bus, I’ve no chance…right?

And, failing to find a husband on an overcrowded bus beats silently (but very noticeably) sobbing behind an oversized pair of Tom Ford sunglasses. And yes, there was no reason for me to mention the brand but fuck you, I got dumped for a tricycle, all I have going for me is a pair of bloody Tom Ford sunglasses.

So back the fuck off.

The problem is… there are no potential men on this bus. There are men, for sure. In fact MMM and I are pretty much the only bloody women on this bus. But none of the men are in anyway dateable. And this is not an example of my unreadiness.

Trust me.

No really, let me prove my point. Let me describe in under five words the men currently surrounding me…

Burberry fedora hat.

North Korean military haircut.

Overweight, Welsh, sweat gland issues.

Under twelve.

Carlton from the Fresh Prince.

All of whom are asleep.

Even if I wasn’t emotionally crippled (currently), dead inside (the rest of the time), completely unattracted to all my bus companions (all of the time with this selection), how might I start a conversation with them? We’ve all been in this situation. No one wants to talk to a stranger on a three hour bus journey. Being woken up by said stranger to start the previously mentioned unwarranted conversation is the equivalent of calling your grandmother a cunt. Unacceptable. No love can grow from such behaviour. Any future you may have had with the dozing stranger will be forever marred by such behaviour.

No it’s just not acceptable.

I’m returning to my weeping.

I’m aiming for just the single tear today. You know like that crying Indian advert from the 70s. The one where the guy playing the Native American turned out to be Italian or something. Whoever he was, he was well upset about litter.

Aiming high as always.

As I said, I’ve got some Tom Fords to be weeping behind.


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