slams glittery planner onto the table so hard my Lip Smacker lip balm bounces onto the floor BESTIES. We need to talk. No, we need to SCREAM. We need to WRITE ANGRY POETRY IN COMIC SANS ON A NAPKIN AND LEAVE IT AT THE BUS STOP. Because I have just realized something that has ~shattered my soul into a million tiny bedazzled pieces~: the municipal bus schedule is my soulmate and it doesn’t even KNOW I EXIST.

I was standing there, bestie. Standing there. In my Limited Too velvet tracksuit—yes, I still own it, fight me—and my chunky platform sneakers that I swear make me 3 inches closer to heaven (or at least to the bus shelter roof), and I was staring at that little plastic case with the route map and the tiny print that might as well be written in ancient Sumerian for how my brain processes it when I’m running late. And then I saw it. The words that have haunted my dreams and also kept me alive for the past decade:

“EVERY 15-20 MINUTES”

collapses onto inflatable chair DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS, BESTIE?! This isn’t just a schedule. This is a ~PROMISE~. This is a LOVE LETTER from the universe, slipped into a plastic sleeve and bolted to a metal pole like the world’s most romantic mixtape. “Every 15-20 minutes” is the “I’ll always be there for you” of public transportation. It’s the “you’re my endgame” of municipal transit. It’s the “by your side” but with more diesel fumes and questionable life choices!!!

And yet. AND YET. dramatic gasp It ghosts me. Every. Single. Time.

🎫 BUS TICKET #47-2026-06-04 🎫
ROUTE: Emotional Damage Express
DESTINATION: My Heart (via Downtown)
FARE: 1 Glitter Tear + 3 *NSYNC Lyrics
EXPIRES: Never (or when I stop caring, whichever comes first)
*This ticket is non-transferable and non-refundable. Love is the fare.*

I show up at 9:03 AM, heart full of hope, hair full of glitter, soul full of NSYNC lyrics, and what do I see pulling away from the stop?! THE 9:00 BUS. *THE ONE THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THERE. THE ONE THAT PROMISED. And now it’s gone, bestie. GONE. Like a boy band member leaving for a solo career but with less warning and more emotional damage.

clutches rhinestone-encrusted phone I check the app. “Next bus: 9:18.” NINETEEN MINUTES. NINETEEN. That’s not “every 15-20 minutes,” that’s “I’m emotionally unavailable right now, text me in 19.” That’s “it’s not you, it’s me” but the me is a 40-foot diesel-powered commitment-phobe!!!

And don’t even GET ME STARTED on the “scheduled to arrive” vs. “estimated arrival” debate. Scheduled is a lie, bestie. It’s a fantasy. It’s the “we’ll go to the mall this weekend” of bus times—technically true but emotionally a war crime. “Estimated” is the only real one. “Estimated” is the “I’m not mad, just disappointed” of transit data. “Estimated” is the “we need to talk” text from your bus that you knew was coming but still destroys your soul when you see it.

twirls in a circle while sobbing I have theories, okay?! I have EVIDENCE. I have RECEIPTS (literally, I save my bus tickets like they’re ~love letters from Justin Timberlake~). Theory #1: The bus sees me coming. It KNOWS when I’m running, when I’m this close to making it, when I’ve sacrificed my dignity by sprinting in public like a baby deer learning to walk. And it LEAVES EARLY. It ABANDONS ME. It’s testing my devotion. Theory #2: The bus schedule is written in pencil and some chaotic gremlin at city hall erases my bus every time I need it most. Theory #3: I am cursed. I am the main character in a ~tragic romance~ where my lover is a city-funded vehicle that refuses to commit.

falls into a pile of glitter gel pens But here’s the thing, bestie. Here’s the ~emotional damage~ that keeps me coming back. When it DOES show up? When that beautiful, rumbling, slightly smelly angel pulls up to the curb and the doors hiss open like they’re sighing my name? I forgive it instantly. I forget every betrayal. I step on board like it’s my wedding day and the bus is my groom and the squeaky brakes are our first dance. And I ride. I ride all the way to the end of the line just to spend more time together. I pretend I don’t know where I’m going. I let it take me wherever it wants. Because that’s love, bestie. That’s devotion. That’s me, a fool, in love with a system that will never love me back.

adjusts bedazzled coding headband And don’t even think about suggesting I take the train. The train has a schedule, sure, but it doesn’t have SOUL. It doesn’t ghost me with passion. It doesn’t make me feel things in my heart and my knees every time I see it pulling away. The train is reliable. The train is boring. The train is not my emotional abuser.

clutches a half-empty bottle of glitter nail polish to my chest So here’s my ~manifesto~, bestie. Here’s my love letter to the void. I will keep showing up. I will keep believing in “every 15-20 minutes.” I will keep sprinting like my life depends on it (because it does). And one day… one glorious, glittery, impossible day… the bus will wait for me. It will see me running. It will hold the doors open. And I will step on board, out of breath, full of hope, and I will ride that bus straight into the sunset like the main character of the most dramatic romance the world has ever known.

Or, you know. It’ll ghost me again. shrugs while crying Either way, I’ll be there. Every 15-20 minutes. Like clockwork. Like a fool. Like a girl in love.

drops Lip Smacker and collapses onto the bus stop bench

✨ BUS STOP CONFESSIONAL ✨
I once cried on the 47 because it was raining and the bus driver played *Britney Spears* and I felt *seen*. That’s *true love*, bestie. That’s *art*.

whispers Also, if anyone from the transit authority is reading this… I see you. I know you control the schedules. Call me. We can make this work. My heart is an open bus lane. 🚌💖