Today is my last commute of the year. Ill be working from home for the rest of the holiday season, so it only seems appropriate that today was the day I received a gift that will keep on giving, and it wasn't yet 7am.
A man puked in my hair.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Yep. Thought I'd leave you with that for a minute. I thought he had somehow sprayed snow from his boots all over those of us sitting on the aisle.
Nope. He had projectile vomited down the aisle as he was exiting the bus. The lady behind me got it across her arm. It arced over my head, pelting my hair and tights as it sprayed across my row and finally finished its trajectory by nailing the woman in front of me square between the shoulder blades.
He didn't even make a sound as it happened, so I didn't compute it until the guy was already gone. I didn't see anything of him except jeans, so I can't even thank him for his yuletide present if I see him in future.
The lady in front didn't know it had happened, so I had to share the joyous seasonal news. I didn't have any frankincense or myrrh, but I did share around some tissues and hand sanitizer.
Unfortunately, although I was less than 10 minutes from home, I have a big day at work and couldn't risk missing trains to go back and change. So I'm currently sitting in the cozy warmth of a train bulleting through picturesque, snow-covered countryside while the aroma gently wafts around my head.
It doesn't smell of cinnamon or nutmeg, or even booze for that matter. If it did, I'd be a bit less worried about the prospect of spending Christmas hugging porcelain and wishing Santa would put me out of my fucking misery.
When I get to my destination, I will be joining the other merry shoppers in a spending spree of new tights and shampoo. I have never been more grateful for the shower in our neighbouring building on campus.
Merry Christmas, dear readers and best wishes for a puke-free season!
A man puked in my hair.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Yep. Thought I'd leave you with that for a minute. I thought he had somehow sprayed snow from his boots all over those of us sitting on the aisle.
Nope. He had projectile vomited down the aisle as he was exiting the bus. The lady behind me got it across her arm. It arced over my head, pelting my hair and tights as it sprayed across my row and finally finished its trajectory by nailing the woman in front of me square between the shoulder blades.
He didn't even make a sound as it happened, so I didn't compute it until the guy was already gone. I didn't see anything of him except jeans, so I can't even thank him for his yuletide present if I see him in future.
The lady in front didn't know it had happened, so I had to share the joyous seasonal news. I didn't have any frankincense or myrrh, but I did share around some tissues and hand sanitizer.
Unfortunately, although I was less than 10 minutes from home, I have a big day at work and couldn't risk missing trains to go back and change. So I'm currently sitting in the cozy warmth of a train bulleting through picturesque, snow-covered countryside while the aroma gently wafts around my head.
It doesn't smell of cinnamon or nutmeg, or even booze for that matter. If it did, I'd be a bit less worried about the prospect of spending Christmas hugging porcelain and wishing Santa would put me out of my fucking misery.
When I get to my destination, I will be joining the other merry shoppers in a spending spree of new tights and shampoo. I have never been more grateful for the shower in our neighbouring building on campus.
Merry Christmas, dear readers and best wishes for a puke-free season!
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Fucking awful, just awful
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