So as if my freaking weekend performance at the squash tournament wasn’t shitty enough, I fuck myself by trying to take BC-Fucking-Transit home from the post-tourny party out in god damn Broadmead to my house on the top of freaking Cedar Hill.
Even at a party of 40 people, three quarters of which were heading downtown at 10pm, I wasn’t having much luck catching a ride. No worries, the Royal Oak Exchange—like, only the biggest bus area in Saanich—is only three blocks from Stuart’s party house. It’s 10:45pm: I should be able to catch the next #Fucking-6, transfer at McKenzie, walk the half km to my house.
So then it’s 11:45pm. One fucking hour I’ve been shivering out here at the largest bus loop in Saanich and not a single stinking hunk o’ shit bus has come by and I’m so angry because the posted schedule said there should have been one at 11:01 and another at 11:29 and I actually kick the waist-high schedule attached to its metal post with my foot and now it’s vibrating (the schedule and post) back and forth real fast and the wind is right howling through the willows and the weeds near the stop and it reminds me of camping in the Yukon as a kid, camping at Jumbo Pass near a freaking glacier and listening to the wind of death but back then I had a -20-degree down sleeping bag and North Face jacket and now I have some nylon piece o’ shell and a Gap shirt and I feel like I am on a glacier and I can’t read the damn sign it’s boinging back and forth so fast and then this creepy old pervert in a black car is parked in a driveway right next to me, and he and his stupid puffy dog in the back seat are watching me and I am so angry I just pray he says something to me so I can unleash.
And then the sign slows down and I can read again and double-check for the 8th time in the last ten minutes that it is indeed Saturday’s schedule, #6, Royal Oak, not a fucking holiday, not on strike, in Victoria, on earth, 21st bloody century. And then there’s this god damn little side box in the bottom left—I’m now getting to the I Hate BC Transit part—that says “buses on the schedule not listed with a fucking retarded little letter E or C next to them are in fact not going to ever ever come by the fucking stop you’re standing at right now, the damn stop you’ve gone by ten hundred times on your weekly fucking transit trips back from Vancouver and seen thousands of loosers catch their #6 from.”
So the bus stop for buses at 11:01, 11:29 and 11:45 p.m. is actually around the corner, the bus stop just within sight where you’ve been watching numerous other buses go by and stop at, but because you were facing the fucking driver side you couldn’t see the number and assumed they were some fucking far off trailer park-land buses bound for Esquimalt or some such shit, but which were in fact the damn #6 two times.
So you run over there and manage to catch the last 6 of the night and by the time you get off at McKenzie and Quadra the last #26 doesn’t come for another 20 minutes so you walk home, from McKenzie and Quadra, a 2 or so km hike, normally enough to fucking piss me off.
But fucking brilliant I changed the insoles in my squash shoes a couple games before the tournament this weekend and naturally developed these amazingly uniform loonie-sized bubble blisters under my arches, the likes of which I’d been strapping down with hockey tape all tournament in an effort to stop their sloshing and leaking and bleeding and which I swore I wouldn’t aggravate any further after Saturday afternoon, after I shaved the hair off the top of my feet and tore off the last of the tape, and then—ass that I am—assuming rides from fellow players, or from BC Transit at worst, would keep me off them, keep me from walking or having to ride my bike for the 8,000th time this winter…But no, I get to walk on them AND my fucking shite knees from McKenzie and Quadra to my desolate hole on top of Cedar Hill.
I hobble at the best of times just getting to the kitchen.
And so now it’s 1 a.m. and I’m going mtbing in 7.5 hours and I blame fucking conservative middle class suburban Victoria and their 2.1 cars per person consumption habits, even when it’s over a dollar a litre, for keeping the transit system down and underfunded and underused and over $2 bucks a ride.
And I blame the damn transit system itself for making the most unclear, ineffective and unusable god damn schedules and bus stops and entire bus system I had the bright idea of putting my faith into tonight.