Forgive me Busfather, for I have sinned. Over the long weekend, I coveted two classic cars: a 60s-style Oldsmobile Rocket and 50-something Chevy Bel Air. I didn’t want to ride in them Busfather, but I couldn’t help staring. They looked so beautiful, with their rag tops and candy paint and whitewall tires, the bass from their sick stereos shaking the shelters under which I stood.
OK, maybe I did want to ride, but just a little bit.
And while I’m on the subject, I might as well confess: Over the weekend, I rode in cars to destinations I could have reached on the bus. I’m usually very strong in my refusals, Busfather, but what’s a girl to do when well meaning people all but insist on transporting her? You see, they haven’t yet found the faith and do not know the spiritual benefits a bus-based life can provide.
As penance, for my sins, Busfather, I promise to sit in the back of the every route I ride (subjecting myself to bus luh and extra-loud headphones) for a full week. I can only hope that this will earn your forgiveness.