I am apparently a C-cup. 34C, to be exact. Well, I didn’t. This whole time, I thought I was a 36B. Well now, don’t I feel stupid. Actually, no. Not really. They’re almost but not quite the same thing, except one makes me feel better about myself, because we all know that nobody cares about anything having to do with women aside from their breast sizes.
I hate taking the bus even more than I hate taxis.
I hate that every time I take a bus I’ve never taken before to somewhere I’ve never been before, the speaker and display that are supposed to let me know where the hell I am are both broken. Not my favourite kind of guessing game. You can never see the street signs from whatever awkward position you’re stuck in, and can’t anyone in this godforsaken city put the numbers on their buildings somewhere visible? Not that when I don’t know where I am there are ever even any buildings facing the street I’m going down, so it wouldn’t help, anyway. I don’t care if I’m at 800 E something-or-other. What is the actual name of this something-or-other street, and how far north is it? Suck suck suck. Oh, well. What it really comes down to is this: broken busses (shut up, spellcheck, I like to spell busses with two esses, and your bullshit squiggly lines aren’t going to change my mind) cost me a whole five minutes of precious time today, and I am livid. The end.