Please, You’re Like Ten

Please, Youre Like Ten

The bus.

The worst time of my life.

You see, on my bus in particular, it’s not just the lack of sanitation and discomfort that displeases me, it’s the people. Or should I say, the children.

Here I am, trying to save the planet and all by forcing myself to tolerate the mass of odd-looking bugs (creatures with more than two legs and don’t look like humans freak me out), ignoring the fact that there are ABSOLUTELY NO SEATBELTS (Come on! Safety first!), and melting in my frequently misfortunate clothing decisions, not to mention I have to deal with them. There’s a reason why I practically leap out the door at my stop.

On every bus, there are three categories of people:

The Fan Girls: The thirteen-year-old girls who just happen to choose seats far from each other so they have to yell for one another and seem “cool”. Usually their conversations have to do with cliché girl stuff that even I, a fellow female, wouldn’t want to sit through. Unfortunately for me, this means boyfriends, makeup, and One Direction. It’s hard to imagine our generation being as unfocused about education as they are, but what can I say, it’s all culture’s fault. What they want to do with their lives, I don’t even know. And really? They have boyfriends? Would walking each other to class and having their moms schedule a play date for them be considered “a relationship”? They’re practically ten, and ten-year-olds don’t date or wear eyeshadow that horridly matches their outfit color of the day (Ugh, RED WORKS ON NO ONE.). WHERE’S THEIR YOUTH? I’m not even going to start on One Direction. All chances of me classifying them as decent has been shot by these mobs of girls yelling What Makes You Beautiful OVER me so their friends can sing along. And one in particular was lisping. LISPING. And they also seem to all have iPhones. They are ten. With cell phones. iPhones. I was thirteen when I got a phone and it was a slider phone from prehistoric times. I don’t even have an iPhone now.

The Hooligans: I hate ruckus. These people are the definition of ruckus. Can they sit down? Nope. Can you stop screaming? Nope. Can you quit cussing because you’re like ten and you can’t even spell and I know you never had a real girlfriend so quit trash talking your “ex”? NOOOOOPE. Oh man, I long for the day all members of the bus would be productive citizens of society that aim for higher education and small talk about current events (Yeah, yeah. So what if I don’t talk about current events either.). You can always spot these people easily. They are usually still stuck in their “Hollister has hot and buff models so if I wear Hollister I’ll look like them even though Hollister is a California based brand and I live in Texas and the nearest beach is like a trillion miles away” phase (Score propoganda!). Plus, they seem to like discussing working out even though when I glace at them their arms seem to mirror my own scrawny limbs. Please, you DON’T work out. You’re like ten.

The Quiet Ones: Probably the best bus companions you could ever have. (I am proudly one of them. Just saying.) These kids are fun, loving people who mind their own business on the bus and will someday have super successful lives and become ten-times more attractive.

Now intermingle the Quiet Ones with the Hooligans and the Fan Girls and you got yourself a bus. Yay!

Not only are you sitting on mysteriously dirtied seats with a view of bug-splattered windows with humid air assaulting your beautiful hair but you have to squish yourself against the disease-ridden windows to make room for sweaty preteens with THE POINTIEST BACKPACKS. Please, tell me why I, one of the few upper classmen who have suffered five years on the bus, happen to be the only seat that is sitting three-to-a-seat while some eighth graders have a seat to themselves. Please, tell me.

Many things have happened on the bus for me.  One girl in particular, rudely SAT ON MY LAP (she had herself ON me) without permission to invade my space. One boy with a horizontally large backpack (he could have fit all of Kate Gosselin’s babies in it) was contemplating which seat he could take (Ha. Read that in Rebecca Black’s voice.) and his backpack was positioned all up in my space. As he looked left and right for a seat, his ginormous backpack followed in suit and threw me back and forth in the comfort of my own seat. Another time a girl, fresh from PE, rubbed my arm with her prickly (?!) and awfully sweaty arm for the whole ride home. I am so fortunate.

Here’s what should happen:

I hop onto the nicely air conditioned and window tinted bus casually, noticing the carpeted floor while the bus driver greets me.

Driver: Hi Viviane! Heard you won National  Coolest Teen again!

Me: Well, you know.

Driver: Well here, please accept this soft pretzel, cherry coke ICEE, and this one hundred dollar bill!

I thank her and graciously accept the items. As I continue to walk down the aisle slurping my ICEE, I notice everyone is quiet and behaving well in their seats. I select my seat, number 11 on the left side, and place my backpack on its convenient hook and buckle myself in. In an instant, a Joseph Gordon Levitt-lookalike-that’s-my-age enters the bus and is taken aback by my cherubic good looks.

Him: Is this seat taken?…You know what? I could just admire your beauty from afar; you can have the seat to yourself. Please enjoy this homemade apple pie.

Now, how kind of him. As the bus goes over to the junior high, Joseph Gordon Levitt lookalike would sing me songs he wrote about me. (His voice is a cross between Adam Levine and Bruno Mars.) The junior high kids file onto the bus as quietly as possible, each offering me an item of worth.

Kid 1: Here! My mom got you these fruit tarts because she knows you love them.

Kid 2: Please take this sweater stitched from gold, my Queen.

Each time a kid asks to sit by me, the Joseph Gordon Levitt lookalike defends honor and convinces them to sit elsewhere. I have a seat to myself. The bus would play music from my choice of radio station and no one but me would be allowed to sing along. When the ride comes to an end, everyone bids me farewell and throw fifties into a basket for me. The Joseph Gordon Levitt lookalike confesses his love for me and I leave.

Everyone: Aw! I can’t believe she’s gone. I’m going to miss her.

And everything would happen all over again the next day. *Sigh* One day.

I’m also not sure why in my dreams people tend to feed me alot… Nonetheless, until my fantasies come true, I guess I’ll just have to suffer.