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Listen and listen well, folks. Greyhound is No. Fucking. Joke.
The ride put aside (which if at any point I can begin to feel my ass again will become the focus of this post…the ride, not my ass. My ass should be the focus of every post) getting into town late last night was shall we say…quiet? Let me break that down a little clearer.
Remember when those hopefully-not-demons-but-instead-just-bored-kids were roaming around New Jersey in clown outfits for no apparent reason?
SIDEBAR: I understand you might not want to click that link, but I promise, if you do, you get to see a flustered (and let’s call a horse a horse) bloated Carson Daly try to talk about creepy NJ clowns whilst reading a teleprompter and using an unnecessary, oversized iPad.
You back? Did you watch it? It wasn’t even him so much, right? It’s like, “Who told you to wear that suit?” Anyways, remember those clowns!?! It was like that…minus the clowns. And also in Maine. I’m going for, like, a feeling, OK? It was a similar feeling. I imagine. Cause honestly, who goes to Jersey?
If you’ve been on Greyhound–first off, bless you–you know that sometimes it just stops at a Designated Area. This isn’t really a “place” so much as a “location.” These sorts of passenger exchanges usually take place in mad rural areas during time when there is still an acceptable amount of daylight happening.
Cut to me, Justine and Rich hopping off our bus on the side of the road at ten to midnight. Are you thinking, “Oh, fuck this shit.” ‘Cause you should be, and we were. But it’s November and no matter how lit you are, peeps still get cold.
After one of us thought Uber might work (Justine) and the other thought calling the cab company that was advertising via a sticker on a telephone pole (Rich) would work, we decided to hoof it. How far could it be?
Far. The answer is Far. Capital F.
At a little past 1 a.m., we finally made it to town. Once I’m more acclimated, I’m going to try and upload a map so you can feel my pain properly but for now, imagine ripping a Victorian dollhouse inside out like so many starfish stomachs and then sewing it atop a rocky cliff like the geography version of that scene from Silence of the Lambs. That’s kinda what Carlisle is like. Smell included.
EDITOR’S NOTE: When I made this joke to Justine, she scoffed and said the town was both “quaint” and “charming.” Rich has yet to say more than a few words at a time. Mostly they’ve been “Jesus Christ.”
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