Ah, the Glasgow bus.

There she is.
There she is.

You can have many, many adventures on the Glasgow bus. You can get on the wrong one and get completely lost, for example, or find yourself a new #1 fan. Sometimes it smells like puke. Sometimes it smells like pee. Sometimes it smells like both. Sometimes you can’t tell what it smells like and that’s worrisome. Sometimes it’s 24 degrees outside, which doesn’t sound that hot, but then it’s 24 degrees and 100% humidity, so the windows of the bus actually drip on the inside and make you wish you were dead a little bit.

It’s a good time.

I rode the bus almost every single day while I was living in Glasgow, so I got used to it.

Or so I thought.

I don’t think anything could have prepared me for the one day I sat down on the bus and found a little friend sitting next to me.

“Oh my god,” you’re thinking, “Was it a rat? It was a rat, wasn’t it? Was it dead? WAS IT A DEAD RAT?!”

It wasn’t a rat.

It was a used tampon.

"What the fucking?!"

At first I was like:


And then I was like:


And then I realized, oh yeah, I should probably:


That was the day I learned that Glasgow ladies may take the cake when it comes to sheer classiness, but also that I am NOWHERE near as stealthy as I think I am, because I think I’m pretty stealthy when I need to be, but I could NEVER pull that off. No pun intended.

You're welcome.
You’re welcome.


P.S. Genuinely didn’t think I’d use that ‘period’ category more than once, but here I am. I’d apologize, but it’s a good* fucking story, right?!

*See: gross