So. This is awkward.

I bet you don’t even want to hear from me, the person you referred to as “Spawn of Satan” and “get thee gone” and “what the fuck is wrong with you.” Well, in your position, I wouldn’t want to hear from me, either, but I would also want some sort of closure on our ordeal on Wednesday evening. And while I know this won’t be enough to make up for the damage I caused you, know that I think of what happened as more of a balancing of accounts. You made my life miserable for three months by starting up inane conversations on the bus, I made your life miserable for one night.

I guess I should start at the beginning. Baldy: I’m sorry for calling you “a senile fearmongerer” when I first got on the bus. I wasn’t aware that, at 3:45, I was on the 3:30 bus, and you’d barely made it half a block. Also: I’m sure you’re not senile. Though you seem to be well past the legal age of retirement, the fact that your bald pate is so smooth and shiny speaks volumes of your hygiene; as I imagine that it’s impossible to keep your health up while senile, you probably aren’t senile. You’re still a fearmongerer for insisting we “wouldn’t get out of downtown alive,” though.

Screeching Harpy #1: I’m sorry for chucking my shoe at you. It wasn’t the most mature of actions, but we’d been on the bus for half an hour, and had barely made it past the block in front of the bus station. I was a bit stretched for nerves. The fact that you’d been shrieking “The Wheels on The Bus” as if it were the most hi-fucking-larious thing you could have done was infuriating, and the fact that you’d been screaming so loud I could hear you over Metallica at full volume didn’t help either. In addition, I also apologize–barely–for saying “I will spit on your grave when you die.”
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