Haircut Nightmare

Disaster has struck my life. I’ve been inconsolable for over a week now. I’m not sure how much longer I can hide the scars. The stares, points, and laughs I get aren’t getting any less traumatic; most of them from my family and friends. What happened you ask? I…I got…my…BANGS TRIMMED. 

How hard can trimming bangs be? Apparently it is a rare and lost art. It was a dark, dreary night and I was scheduled to work until 8pm. It was only a few days before I was leaving on vacation and I noticed my lustrous, bull bodied bangs were dangling in my eyes. I decided just to stop at the Last Choice Haircutters (it’s really called First Choice Haircutters but after my experience I would choose Michael J. Fox blindfolded as a first choice before this horrendous establishment for my next cut) because it was on the way home from work and I was in a hurry. I thought, it’s a bang trim, it can’t be screwed up. I could not be more in the wrong, even if I took up a job as a retirement home stripper. When I got to the salon, I told her exactly what I wanted and then closed my eyes so the tiny hairs wouldn’t get in them or so she wouldn’t accidently cut off my eyelashes or anything like that. She was doing a lot more scissoring than any previous bang-cutters of mine so I was mildly concerned but out of the goodness of my heart, I trusted her. Well, when I opened my eyes that good heart of mine almost stopped…

“what…the…FUCK…did you do to my hair you crazy bitch!” as I rip the hair-catching cape off in a fit of rage, throw it on the ground and smush it with my foot like a used cigarette. I then grabbed her by her head and shove her face into the comb cleaning solution, grab her scissors out of her hand and chop the shit of BEAUTIFUL hair all the while cackling like a fat witch. This is what I felt like doing. Of course in real life I told her it was fine, paid the five dollars and went to my car to cry. It was and still is a nightmare. It looks like the end of an old broom! It looks like a scarecrows asshole! It looks like the part of a tape roll that cuts the tape! It looks like barbed wire fence! It looks like fucking shit! When I got home I tried EVERYTHING to fix it. I washed it, a straightened it, I gelled it…nothing could tame this beast. There was a whole damn chunk missing from one side! My only hope at this point was a hat.

I NEVER should have trusted this bitch. I hate her with every strand of hair that she brutally dismembered from my head. Was she fucking blind? Did she have a hand tremor? Did I sleep with her husband? I don’t know but whoever let her cut hair should be punished, hard. Since this happened, I’ve been fantasizing about her in dangerous situations. When you lose something so near and dear to your face, it’s hard to recover without feeling anger and pain at first. They were my selling point. When I groomed them, I could really pull off straight across bangs which is hard for most women, but I could do it, me, Chelsea! They exist now, only in my memory (old lady from Titanic voice).

I really hope they don’t take very long to grow back because when I was up in the morning, they stick up vertically from my head. But for now, I will have to put on a brave (and ugly) face until they slowly grow back into some sort of publicly acceptable haircut. 

 

Trying on Clothes

Is trying on clothes an equally terrible experience for everybody, or is it just me? On diet commercials, you see women in store change rooms, trying on clothes while they smile and spin around in the mirror. Well, I’ve been dieting for weeks and looking in the mirror and spinning around just makes me feel out of breath. I wish I was one of those girls who could walk into a store, buy anything without trying it on, and it would look great. I tried doing this once. I bought a one-size-only flowy striped top without trying it on; I figured I couldn’t go wrong. Well the first time I put it on, I realized there was nothing right about it. Seeing as one of my titties is a whole cup size larger than the other, the supposed-to-be horizontal strips were more of an awkward 45 degree diagonal pattern. Whatever cheap material it was made out of clung to my body, revealing every fat roll. It looked like a ham covered in a saran wrap. It was also one of those shirts that really show off your pit stains. Maybe I should spend more than five bucks on a sweater next time.

Anyways, back to the trying on of clothes. Everything about the process bothers me:

Lighting

Okay, there are two types of lighting one may encounter in a changing room situation; brutally honest lighting or dirty trickery lighting. The brutally honest lighting makes me insta-sad. It is often fluorescent and reveals every cellulite divot, vein, rash, mole, hickey, bruise, hair, scratch, and stretch mark; and I’m just referring to my leg, I haven’t even gotten my shirt off yet and only myself and only a couple… dozen… handfuls…of men…and women…know what lurks under there. When I’m under that type of light I feel like my body is in one of those interrogation rooms on cop shows and its being questioned as to why it looks so bad…like a raw chicken or a dog’s shaved belly. Then you have the dirty trickery lighting; it’s dim and soft and highlights your positive features (or for those who don’t have any, it just makes you look less ugly). Under this light, I look at myself and think “wow, I don’t look half bad! I could almost pass as a lady. I could see myself leaving my house in this.” So, I buy it only to experience delayed disappointment. Once I get home and try it on, I realize it accents that third chin I’ve been working on, it accentuates that bat wing of an arm that delicately jiggles in the wind, and really draws attention to my back fat rolls that look like a pack of hot dogs.

The Employees

“Are you doing okay in there?”…No, I’m not okay. I am having a nervous breakdown because not even black can slim this ass down. Can you maybe grab me a dry cloth to dab the sweat and tears pouring from my face from the pressure of figuring out how to work these zippers, buttons, and Velcro on this contraption.

“Do you need a different size?” Yea, can you grab me size “maternity even though I’m not pregnant.”

It doesn’t matter how shitty you look, they’re going to tell you that you look fabulous; they work on commission. Most of the time I want to be like “ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND? Do you not see my nipples hanging about? Did you not catch the fact that my ass crack, muffin-top combo is NOT fitting inside these impossibly small jeans?”

“How did you do today!?”  says the size zero associate with her midriff sticking out. **Throws a 46 pound pile of reject clothes at her while keeping eye contact and a straight face while I walk away, without saying a word.

The Rooms

“You can only bring 6 articles of clothing in with you at a time!” Yea, not a problem I can barely fit my own fat-ass in there let alone 6 pieces of clothing. They are so damn small. I already feel panicked by claustrophobia but on top of that is the downright terrifying fear of someone accidently walking in on you while you have your head in a shirt, your tits flopped out and your gut exposed. The worst is a room with no mirror. Having to leave the “comfort” of the dressing room to look in the communal mirror is a terrible experience. You carefully peak through the crack of the door to make sure nobody is there to see you, in case what you’re trying on makes you look like a fat kid caught in a net. Of course, even if you spot nobody and quickly run to the mirror to take a quick peak, the associate comes running around the corner… “oh my goooshh…you look soo goo…” “NO.”

The Clothes

The clothes themselves these days are impossible to figure out. I wish they came with instructions. There is just so much damn leather, netting, buttons, straps, snaps, tassels, ties, bows, velour, elastic, and holes. Half the time I am probably putting that shit on wrong, which is why it probably never fits. On several occasions I’ve found myself getting stuck in clothing items and had to rip out of them, Hulk style. Just the other day, I tried on a dress and it was a little bit challenging getting it on, but I could not for the life of my get it off. Between my tits and my hips, there was nowhere for this dress to go. I began to panic and sweat, which I think acted as a lubricant which helped me eventually get it off.

Here is a picture of my stuck in that dress…

Check Out Girl Checks Out More Then Groceries

Have you ever had a stranger's junk in your face? I feel confident in saying that for many of you the answer is yes, but I'm referring to a particular situation, one not involving alcohol mixed with bad decisions. Here is a non-fictional tale that I like to call “Checkout Girl Checks Out More Than Groceries.”

It was a dark, stormy Friday (it could of been a sunny Tuesday, I can't remember, I was trying to add a dramatic effect) and I was at my job working hard...hardly working*...stupid auto correct. My job consists of standing behind a counter with a giant freezer full of delicious food behind me. Customers come in, tell me what they want and I grab it for them. It sounds like a pretty uneventful environment doesn't it? WELL IT'S NOT!

I do most of my human observations at my job, and I rarely come home without an interesting story. This one in particular really stands out in my mind. Anyway, this is the type of store where we get a lot of regulars and the majority of the time people know what they are coming in for; in and out. On this particular day, a customer I did not recognize came into the store. He was a bigger man, bald with terrifying tattoos up and down his arms. I greeted him in the upbeat way I usually greet customers and then went about my business while he looked at our sale flyer. His mannerisms were different of a regular customer, which caught my attention. For example, he kept pacing, scratching the back of his neck, looking through the one paged flyer more times than necessary, etc. At this point, I thought maybe he is just having a tough time deciding what to purchase for dinner, it IS quite a crucial choice. So, I walk in front of him, with the counter separating us of course and say “may I grab something for you?” WELL, at this very moment I discovered EXACTLY what he wanted me to grab! I looked down and my heart dropped to the floor. Let's just say the Oktoberfest behind me weren't the only sausages in the store. He was completely exposed! My eyes widened and I drew back startled. I quickly composed myself and shot my eyes back up in the direction of his head (the one on his shoulders). He listed a few items he wanted to purchase and I grabbed them for him as fast as I could. As he is choosing his groceries, two elderly women walk in. I couldn't have them seeing this! I don't know CPR and I'm quite certain these innocent little ladies would have a heart attack if they saw what I was looking at. I had to get this guy out of here as soon as possible. His junk was like a terrible car accident; you're not sure why but you can stop looking at it. I had to constantly remind myself to keep my eyes elsewhere. Finally it was time to check him out (his groceries) and so many things kept rushing through my head; “how can he not feel that breeze? Is he doing this on purpose? Is it looking at me? What should I have for lunch?” (I was hungry).

Soon my fear subsided and I realized how funny this was. As I was ringing up his total, it took all my strength not to laugh. I had to pretend I was having a coughing fit just to suppress my laughter. Of course he decides he wants to pay debit which is exactly level with his penis. I had to type in his total on the debit machine, insert his card and spin the machine in his direction, all with my hand less than a foot away from his package. I packed his groceries, handing him his receipt and he was gone. Thankfully the elderly ladies never noticed.

Last time I checked, I was supposed to show CUSTOMERS our meat, not the other way around. I really do think he did that on purpose and if the expected end result was to turn me on, he in no way, shape, or form succeeded. The only turning on his act of disgustingness did was turn me on to women.

At least it was an eventful day at work and I have a story to tell the Bun Guy (I should probably know his name by now but I feel Bun Guy will suffice)

Thank you for reading!

Picture of the Day 

This is me on vacation in Chicago, enjoying a beer and deep dish pizza. MMM.

Article about my Papa

My Papa is currently battling Alzheimer's Disease and currently lives in a nursing home. I was asked to write an article about my Papa to be published in the Aspen Lakes Echo, a publication that talks about what is happening at the home as well as contains articles about those who live there. Here it is:



John McCloy; an extraordinary person to say the least. John was born in Ayr, Ontario in 1941 and raised in Kitchener, Ontario. You've heard of the girl next door, but how about the girl across the street? In 1959 John married Val, the girl who lived right across from him. Their marriage was and still is full of love, laughter and especially as of recently, support. John and Val gave life to three wonderful children; Chris, Debbie, and John Jr. They are also lucky to have a loving son-in law, Jeff and a lovely daughter-in-law, Katy. All three of their children have grown up to be admirable, influential parents who have done an effective job of passing on strong family values to John and Val's five grandchildren; Stefani, Jourdan, Chelsea, Brett, and Mitchell.

John has had a very successful career. At the age of 11, enticed by the 10 cents an hour, John started working at a bakery. This job quickly turned into a passion which turned into a career. John started working for Weston Bakeries in 1969. With dedication and a strong work ethic, John became the Production Manager of the Weston Bakeries location in Essex, ON in 1975. Johns life-long career has allowed him to work and live in several different Ontario cities including Kitchener, Windsor, Mississauga, and Cobourg. Val always stuck by his side and was extremely supportive of all John's career opportunities. John retired several times, but his love for working couldn't be tamed and he returned to work until he finally retired for good in Windsor, Ontario. John was such an extremely invaluable asset to Weston Bakeries and a short biography dedicated to his work was printed on the bag of Weston Bakeries Hot Crossed Buns and English Muffins.

John, a Toronto Maple Leafs fan, loves hockey as he played it as a kid. He also enjoys bowling; John and Val used to be in a bowling league together. John is also an incredible Euchre player. There is no doubt that John's favourite thing to do was to spend time at his cottage in Katrine, Ontario. He took excellent care of his beloved cottage and here he explored his love for fishing, boating, and campfires. What he most loved about the cottage were the times when the entire family would come up for a week and spend good quality time together.

John, known to his five grandchildren as Papa, holds his grandchildren close to his heart. He is a captivating story teller, especially when it came to bedtime stories. He never had trouble getting his grandchildren to go to bed as he would tell them they would turn into pumpkins if they didn't. Whenever it came time to tuck his grand-daughters in, he always began his stories with “once upon a time in a land far, far away, there were three beautiful girls.” Whenever these beautiful girls would wear their hair in a ponytail, he would always lift it up and look for a horse's bottom. He taught his grandsons valuable lessons including how to fish and how to make it appear as if you are swallowing a whole egg and having it come out your bottom. He is always looking to provide entertainment for his grandchildren, whether it is by pulling out his teeth or teaching us how to beat the next level in Donkey Kong.

Aside from all the jokes and witty lines, John is an extremely loving person and is very proud of his family. His contagious sense of humour coinciding with his admirable wisdom has helped properly raise not only three wonderful children of his own but five well-rounded grandchildren who are so very grateful for the love and creativity their Papa has brought and continues to bring into their lives.

When John was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, his family only grew closer and stronger. The dedicated care John's entire family provided for him proved how tight-knit they are. John's family devoted all of their attention on helping John adapt to the changes and confusion he was feeling. John was admitted into Aspen Lakes in 2011. Val, being the committed and nurturing wife she has always been is a tremendous support and she visits him six times a week. His family is extremely grateful for the wonderful caregivers that provide John with great personal care. They are so appreciative and cannot express this enough.

Thanks for reading :)

xo chelsea grace

Life as a Fire Hydrant

Here is a creative writing assignment of mine from Grade 12 that I found.

I had to write from the point of view of a fire hydrant.

Sometimes I feel as if I am taken for granted. It's hard living a life as a crime against fashion, with my bright yellow exterior and my shiny blue top. I'm constantly being blamed by angry drivers for wasting a perfectly good parking space. Hey, I'm just here to, you know, potentially save lived, but yeah I guess I should just be labelled as a neighborhood nuisance. Is it really that much of a bother to park a few meters up the street? I can't help but be amused by the oblivious people who park in front of me while they “only run in for a second” and are greeting by a parking ticket upon their return.

I see the same things day after day; couples strolling down the sidewalk holding hands, drivers with the need for speed zooming past me thinking cops won't catch them on residential streets, even children running past me in an intense game of tag. Today, I was the home-free spot!

Yep, today was a good day. I can feel the warm sun beating down onto my painted top, the surrounding blades of grass lightly tapping my base as they blow in the wind, the dog peeing all down my...wait, not again! Honestly, what makes me so gosh darn attractive to every single canine that crosses my path? Is there some sort of sign painted across me reading, “hello, feel free to urinate all over me”!? Seriously, sometimes I think that my friends and I are more notorious for being the dog's version of the toilet rather than on important object that should be treated with respect! I guess it's true what they say...some days you're the dog and some days you're the hydrant...oh wait, I'm the hydrant everyday!

Eventually, every fire hydrant has that one moment, the one that's worth all the home-free hits and the dog pee showers. My moment was last August, when the house across the street caught fire. As soon as I saw the smoke seeping out of the windows, I knew it was my time to shine! When the, let's just say more than attractive, firemen arrives they took out their hoses (no pun intended) and attached it to my nozzle. I knew I had to give everything I had! I felt more empowered with ever drop of water I forced out of myself and I had that fire out in no time! I was a hero. Of course, non of the recognition went to me, but nonetheless I was a hero.

The Devil Within (a poem I wrote in high school)

So, today I was cleaning my room extensively. I ended up throwing 3 full garbage bags of crap away, including all my work from college. It was depressing because I studied hard and did well and then decided I didn't want to be in that profession. Oh well, that's my journey. Anyway, I found a stack of paper from high school, and in that stack was a few things I had written in my Grade 12 English class and Creative Writing class. So, for the next couple blogs I will share them with you.

This poem is titled “Devil Within” and I'm sure after reading it you will think I was/still am fucked up but I can assure you I am happy and healthy, I just have a poet soul lol. Poetry is about interpreting the words in a way that affects you. My poem can have many interpretations but what I was aiming for when I wrote this was the struggle we all have with ourselves to forget what may have happened in the past and not be afraid to change your future in order to follow your dreams.

The Devil Within

You're not at all loud,

Yet you are never inaudible.

It's overwhelmingly awkward being alone with you.

Therefore, I am always in a state of awkwardness.

You force me to dwell upon my broken past.

You depict images of my desolate future.

You remind me of the crestfallen present.

I want myself to want better things,

but you tell me these things are unattainable.

I want to change,

I know what I have to do,

but you tell me it's impossible.

I say I need to try, I need to see!

You say it's safer not to.

“What will others think of you?” you say to me.

There is no ignoring your emphatic tone.

I try to find sweet solitude in my dreams,

but I ill-fatedly find you there haunting me.

My dreams are private images locked in an imaginary box,

but you always manage to pry it open and interfere.

I've had enough of you!

Stop playing these diabolic games with me!

Unlock these restricting chains you've set upon me!

Wait...you are me.

We're one in the same.

It's me...against myself.

It's up to me to overpower the devil within.

Dear me, please give me the strength,

to repair the damage that “I” has done to “Me.”

My Quest for a Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich

Okay, I like food. There’s not much I won’t eat. I eat like a man and I am always hungry. I appreciate good food. Something I had never tried was a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich (PCS). With my love and appreciation of good food, I refused to eat one from anywhere else except the original Philly Cheesesteak restaurant in Philadelphia, Pat’s King of Steaks. A couple of weeks ago, I had my opportunity to make this life-long goal of mine an accomplished one. My friends Amanda and Dylan offered to accompany me to Philadelphia in my quest for an authentic PCS. When people asked me why I was visiting Philly and I told them about my deep desire for this sandwich, they all responded with “no really, why are you going there?” Sometimes people have a hard time understanding that if I want something bad enough, I will go to great lengths to have it.

So three brave and hungry souls rented a car and set off in search of a PCS suited to satisfy our cravings. To my surprise, the hunt for a PCS was filled with unexpected excitement. I ended up crossing close to 10 things off of my bucket list on this trip. We decided to swing by Seaside Heights, NJ on the way, the home of the Jersey Shore house! Here, I fulfilled many of my hopes and dreams including; getting a picture in front of the Jersey Shore house, buying a t-shirt from the Shore Store, getting a picture of me doing the Jersey Turnpike in front of Karma (the nightclub), and of course writing the link to my blog on the door of the Jersey Shore house.  (Note to Self: get better hopes and dreams). As fun as NJ was, my heart still yearned for the, what I can only imagine would be succulent taste of that shaved beef on a soft bun, oozing with cheese. Philly here we come.

We finally arrive in Philadelphia, a beautiful place I must say. We drop our luggage off in the hotel and as tired as we were, we decided to explore the city’s night life. It’s about 10pm and way past dinner time, looks like the PCS will have to wait until tomorrow. After we walked around the city, in what I believe was a giant circle, we decided to get a “few” drinks. Being the classy clan we are, we chose a karaoke bar for our first stop. Singing karaoke is something that terrifies the absolute crap out of me. Therefore, I put it on my bucket list. Amanda suggested I do it, and Dylan backed her up. I refused to the point where I was about to cry. My friends made some strong points. “Nobody you know is here.” No. “You can pick the song.” No. “The person before you was horrible.” No. “We will buy you some drinks.” Fine. I ended up choosing one of my all-time favourite songs, “Son of a Preacher Man.” I was shaking a sweating and wanted to be anywhere else in the world but there. My friends said I did “well.” I feel as if the cute bartender was flirty until after I sang karaoke so I’m assuming it couldn’t of been that “well.” Oh well. After I shook off the embarrassment and returned to my seat, an Asian man who had sang earlier in the night came up to me. Now, he was AWEFUL. I think it caused me to lose at least %5 of my hearing. He says, “Wow! You are an excellent singer. I was so impressed. You were awesome. High five!” Cool. The WORST singer I’ve ever heard just complimented my singing abilities. I decide I am too embarrassed to stay at this bar, so I get out my visitors guide. I flip through the pages and an ad catches my eye. “Best Margaritas in the City.” Sold. It doesn’t take much convincing to get Amanda and Dylan to make the 20 minute trek to this bar.

Now, I am not racist whatsoever and this paragraph is not meant to be offensive in any way. We arrive at this margarita bar, called Cocobananas. We look inside. It is packed. There is not one single white person. Every person in the bar is of the African American descent. My friends and I are the whitest white people you can find. After contemplating outside of the bar for a few minutes, we decide that Amanda’s ghetto booty is enough for us to be socially accepted in this bar. We enter. It is obvious that everyone inside is wondering who we are, where we came from, and why we are here. We pick a table in the corner and drink our margaritas in our tiny martini glasses while everyone around us is booty poppin. Amanda and I need to go to the bathroom. We get up and make our way through the crowd, getting stares that could pierce through a brick wall. The bathroom is disgusting. The sink is filled with throw up, with large chunks accenting the walls. There is no toilet paper. I like to think I am a crafty and creative person, especially in a jam. I get an idea. I pull out my visitors guide and we use to pages as toilet paper. Yes, I know it is gross but we’ve already drawn enough attention to ourselves without hunting someone down who could replace the TP. After that experience, we decide it’s time to leave.

We head down the street, wasted. We find a sports bar that is a little more on the quiet side, so we go in. We are the only people sitting at the bar and we quickly make friends with the bartender, Kylie. She was super cool and kept up conversation for the rest of the night. I can’t really remember what we talked about but she let us take home two glasses from the bar as souvenirs, which was cool. It is now closing time and at this point, I have mixed several kinds of beer, vodka, tequila, and various other liquids. Someone suggested it would be a good idea to go to Pat’s King of Steaks right then and there, at 3 in the morning. I may have been to the point of no return, drunk wise, but I have not lost sight of the sole purpose of this grand adventure; a Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich. It is time. I nobly agree to hail a cab and take the 6 minute ride to my destiny.

We arrive. It is more beautiful in person than on the internet. It is my time to shine. Now, there is a certain method to ordering a PCS. I did my extensive research on PCSs and discovered the following:

How to Order a Steak

Step 1: Specify if you want your steak with (pronounced wit) or without (wit-out) onions. (If   you are not a rookie, this should come naturally).

Step 2: Specify plain-cheez whiz-provolone-american cheese-or pizza steak

Step 3: Have your money ready

Step 4: Practice all of the above while waiting in line. If you make a mistake, don’t panic, just go to the end of the line and try again.

I stood in line, hear pounding. I whispered the order to myself several times, praying I don’t mess it up. The person in front of me pays and walks away and I know it is my time to swallow my pride, step up to that dirty window and order the crap out of that cheesesteak. I got the classic. Cheez Whiz wit onions. Now, being me you would think I somehow messed this up horribly. However, my ordering skills were flawless. I did beautifully. It was as if the food Gods blessed me with the gift of flawless drunken speech. The counter attendant even called me sweetie. I was proud of myself. I couldn’t wait to get it home, rip off its packaging and have my way with it. The 8 minute cab ride back to the hotel felt like an eternity. I imagine it is similar to a bride walking down an aisle. She’s thinking, “five years of dating, 2 years of planning a wedding, and finally the moment is here. I cannot get to the altar fast enough.” Finally we get to the hotel, we rush up to the room and I lay my PCS on the bed, slowly unwrapping it, one corner at a time. I can feel my mouth becoming heavy with drool. The aroma that fills my nose sends child down my spine, similar to the ones people get when they have a very anticipated first kiss. There is nobody else in the world right now except for me and this cheesesteak. I take a quick photo shoot with it and then before I decide to end the teasing, I congratulate myself. This PCS is something I really wanted. I could of went to a local Windsor restaurant and tried one, but I knew I deserved better. I really did it, I travelled all the way to Philadelphia for this and I was very proud. Anyway, back to the cheesesteak. I lift the heavy sandwich to my mouth. My lips quiver and I decide, it is time. I take a big bite of the PCS and my heart sings. It is so fucking delicious. It is EVERYTHING I imagined it would be. I feel so overwhelmed, I almost want to cry. I finish almost the whole thing and we all pass out. What could have been either 10 minutes or a few hours later (I was wasted, therefore had no sense of time) I woke up and felt a strong urge…to throw up. I ended up throwing up my entire Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich.

The next day we did touristy things such as; getting my picture next to the Liberty Bell with my butt-crack sticking out, eating a hangover breakfast, purchasing a colonial hat and wearing it around town, etc. We ended up driving back to Ohio and slept at Dylan’s house that night. The next morning he drove us to Cleveland, where we were to catch a Megabus to take us home. We were exhausted from the previous days adventures, and just wanted to have a quit, smooth ride home. Yeah right. First of all, our bus stop consisted of a sign that said “Megabus Stop.” We planned on taking our final bathroom break at this bus stop, which we expected to be an actual building. So, we enter the nearest hotel which happens to be the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen in my life. We frantically search for a washroom, and eventually find one. Of course you need a hotel key to use it. After out hunt continues, we find a washroom being cleaned by the housekeepers, therefore it is open. I really hope these poor ladies hadn’t already cleaned out stalls. We quickly do our business, just in time to hop onto the bus.

We are travelling for an hour or so and stop at a truck stop. A young, scrawny white teenage bends over to pick up his bag, and an older African-American gentlemen gets pissed because the kids “ass is in his face.” So, the older gentleman punches the poor kid in the face. The kid gets the bus driver, who then comes to investigate the situation. The older gentleman tries to defend himself by saying “that damn kid had his ass in my face.” I am outraged. If there is one thing in the world that bothers me to no end, it is people who get away with treating innocent people like shit. I cannot contain my anger…

Me: “THAT POOR KID DID NOTHING TO DESERVE THAT. NOTHING. HE WAS SIMPLY BENDING OVER TO PICK UP HIS STUFF!”

Old Man : “SIT DOWN, U AINT SEEN NUTTIN.”

Me: “UHH YEA, I DID. YOU PUNCHED HIM IN THE FACE FOR DOING NOTHING.”

The State Troopers are called and I am asked to get off the bus to give a statement and answer questions. Two hours later we are on our merry way again. We finally reach Detroit where my great friend Dan is there to pick us up and take us back to Windsor. On the way to the border, I realize I have Dylan’s passport and mine must still be in Ohio. Great. THANKFULLY I brought me birth certificate and several other pieces of i.d and THANKFULLY the lady at the border decided not to be a huge bitch and let me back into my country.

Well I did it. Not only did I fulfill my conquest of eating an authentic PCS, but I faced my fear of karaoke, I saw things I’ve always wanted to see, I stood up for an innocent person, a talked my way back into my own country, and I made some wonderful memories with wonderful people.