The only good reason to ride the bus

For some reason, I avoid public transportation like an ex-girlfriend. I just don't like it. All riding in public transportation does is make me itchy. I've resigned to taking the Metra every morning -- living in the far-west suburbs of Chicago and working downtown pretty much leaves me no other practical option -- which is okay, because the train ride to and from work at least allows me some precious nap time.

But one thing I really don't do, one thing I really detest, are buses.

How many times I rode the bus during college, I can tell you exactly: three. One time it was because I was late for a physics lab and had to make it across campus in 10 minutes, or risk failing the class because I had already skipped two previous labs. The other two times it was because a girl I was dating at the time told me she was horny and impatient.

Those were the only three times I rode the bus in college. I've successfully avoided the bus ever since, in addition to my ex.

The walk from the Union Station to my office at work every morning is only 1.8 miles, which I can make in a half hour, but my mom (who also rides the Metra to and from work with me, it's cute) has been convinced that I should take the bus instead.

Riding one form of public transportation to get to another form of public transportation? Get real! You'd have better luck getting me to eat okra.

No, I'd much rather walk outside, into the sunrays touching my skin, smelling the various nuances of the city, hearing the sounds of honking taxi cabs and jackhammered bolts. I'd rather walk past that new Trump Tower they're building off of Wacker, and note the progress that's being made. I'd rather bump into surly, speedwalking people.

I'd rather control my own destiny instead of waiting around for a bus to arrive every 17 minutes.

"But whats abouts when it's rains?" my mom will ask me.

Umbrella, I'll answer.

"You are too lazies to brings an umbrellas to work!" she'll say.

And I'll respond: "I can be a stowaway. I'm good at sticking my head under the umbrellas of other unsuspecting people."

"Whatevers. Just waits and see. You'll discovers a good reasons to takes the buses. But by thens, it wills be too lates."

Don't you hate when your parents are right? Like when you were in middle school and near the end of summer break, they would warn you to start making it a habit to go to bed a little earlier, or else when the school year began you'd never be able to fall asleep at night? But of course you didn't listen, and then come August 24th you'd be in bed at 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, panic-stricken, hopelessly wide awake.

And, the next day you'd walk into school, a complete zombie.

Don't you hate when your parents know best?

Well, she was right. She knew best. And this morning, I found my good reason to take the bus: amidst the rush into work, in the heart of the city, with the air hot and muggy, I GOT SHIT ON BY A BIRD. One of those fucking pigeons, probably.

The hit -- the shit -- was on my face, just between my nose and my right eye. On the spot where one of those plastic nosepad things from eyeglasses would typically rest, that's where the bird dropped its shit on me. Splat.

The shit was white on the outside, and avocado green in the middle. It was this color, to be exact. Those fucking pigeons.

And the shit was cold and indifferent, running down my cheek, tickling the edge of my lips, forcing me to dart into what I thought was an empty back alley but really a loading area for some mom-and-pop donut shop. Trying not to sob, I wiped the doo-doo off with my hands, and stared at it. Furiously.

When I smeared that disgusting white and green gooey poo on the brick wall, one of the men pushing carts of donuts up the back ramp of the donut shop looked at me, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if to say, "Hey, stay awake from our crates! Quit messing around with the filling from our Boston creme donuts!"

And I glared back at him as if to say, "Boston creme filling isn't half green, you fuckface!"

One minute I'm enjoying a happy-go-lucky hike to work, the next minute I'm as angry and humiliated as the title character from Carrie, right after she's had pig's blood dumped on her head at her prom.

Needless to say, I've learned my lesson. From now on, you can count on me staying under the protective roof of public transportation for as long as possible, to take me where I need to go. No more pleasant strolls through the city for me equals no more aerial attacks from pigeons.