This will be about the 591,973th time I've repeated this sentence

I HATE CENTRAL NEW YORK.

I hate how everything comes to a screeching, grinding halt on any type of holiday. Meaning, if you don't have a car and hella gas money, you can't get anywhere, because there is no bus to where you live.

So fuck you, Centro. I hope whoever makes the bus schedules breaks their legs when they get slammed into by a car. That way, they can't get to work easily (because not everyone gets Memorial Day off) and can't do anything fun (because they don't have a car. Plus they'd spend the day in the emergency room. One that's overflowing with backlogged injured people, because NO DOCTORS OR NURSES HAD A BUS TO TAKE THEM TO WORK, OKAY.)

*bangs head into the table and checks ticket prices to NY*

This will be about the 591,973th time I've repeated this sentence

I HATE CENTRAL NEW YORK.

I hate how everything comes to a screeching, grinding halt on any type of holiday. Meaning, if you don't have a car and hella gas money, you can't get anywhere, because there is no bus to where you live.

So fuck you, Centro. I hope whoever makes the bus schedules breaks their legs when they get slammed into by a car. That way, they can't get to work easily (because not everyone gets Memorial Day off) and can't do anything fun (because they don't have a car. Plus they'd spend the day in the emergency room. One that's overflowing with backlogged injured people, because NO DOCTORS OR NURSES HAD A BUS TO TAKE THEM TO WORK, OKAY.)

*bangs head into the table and checks ticket prices to NY*

I found this poem that I wrote last winter. I'd forgotten about it.

It's so cold that the ink won't run
and the words are frail shadows and grooves
of blue on the page.
We watch the snowflakes plummet to the ground
while the pipes burst in the back room,
an icy metaphorical knife
ripping a wound in frozen metal.
There's an inch of water on the floor now
and nothing to say.
Drinking coffee and eating sandwiches
won't make time go faster,
won't rip away the veil of winter to see
the glimmer of summer on a spring drenched horizon.
For now all we can do
is buy extra insulation and a new section of pipe,
take the laundry to the laundromat,
wait for the planet to fly to the other side
of the sun
and scatter the cold.
... This is going to wreck the boxes in the basement.

I found this poem that I wrote last winter. I'd forgotten about it.

It's so cold that the ink won't run
and the words are frail shadows and grooves
of blue on the page.
We watch the snowflakes plummet to the ground
while the pipes burst in the back room,
an icy metaphorical knife
ripping a wound in frozen metal.
There's an inch of water on the floor now
and nothing to say.
Drinking coffee and eating sandwiches
won't make time go faster,
won't rip away the veil of winter to see
the glimmer of summer on a spring drenched horizon.
For now all we can do
is buy extra insulation and a new section of pipe,
take the laundry to the laundromat,
wait for the planet to fly to the other side
of the sun
and scatter the cold.
... This is going to wreck the boxes in the basement.