There is no more room in the back of the bus. I know, you just want everyone to fit, and I want that, too. I've been that girl who is trying to get on the bus, but falls out and has to wait for the next one. I understand. But it just isn't going to happen, so you can save your voice and stop yelling. I promise we moved back as far as we possibly can. We would have even done that if you used your kind words. We're close. We're cozy. By proxy, these strangers have become my new best friends. We often bond about that time ten seconds ago when you slammed on the breaks and I flew two feet down the aisle and landed on that guy with the duffel bag.
Or about that time you slammed on the breaks and I fell off the back step and that woman had to help me stand up because I was carrying a huge back filled with Green Eggs and Ham books and markers.
Or that time you slammed on the breaks and I dropped my coffee mug and it rolled to the front of the bus, leaking coffee all over the floor, and that kid had to bring it back to me.
Or that time you slammed on the breaks and I tripped over that old lady's bag. It was the best of times.
And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that most of this letter is about me falling, and it is, but that's not my fault or the point of this letter. I mean, it is normally my fault when I fall, like when I trip over my shoes or fall off curbs, but these instances are not my fault. And the point of this letter is that the bus is full. No one else can fit. I'm practically sitting on the girl playing Temple Run in the seat in front of me and I keep stepping on that guy in scrubs.
That's all I have for you. Except I don't think you should yell at that old guy who lost his MetroCard this afternoon. We all have bad days.
Love,
Julie
P.S. In case you're still confused, this bus=full:
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| This is what it looks like when a bus is full. |
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