Syd Ed: A Piss Poor Account of how the Kingston Transportation System doesn’t entirely Suck


I’ll start by saying, much to my humiliation, that this is entirely a true story, or as true as I can recall–as my memory was somewhat compromised at times. It all started with an innocent birthday dinner with a couple of friends, that turned into a nightmare I never knew was possible. 
At dinner we all ordered a simple cider with a beautifully crisp apple taste, smooth and strong; it was heavenly–and so was the second one 1. By the end of the meal I was harbouring a happy buzz, but one of my companions had not touched her drink, she didn’t like it. I couldn’t let a perfectly good cider get carried away to it’s death, so I chugged the poor bastard mere moments before leaving the pub. I realized as we spilled onto the street that I had crossed the threshhold into drunk–a state of mind I hadn’t intended on entering. 
We decided to catch the upcoming bus home, turning a 20 minute journey into a five minute one, or so we thought. Little did we know that we had caught the wrong bus2. As we nestled into our seats I felt the familiar discomfort in my bladder, but seeing as we’d be home in T minus 5 minutes, I didn’t call attention to it. This bus, that we thought would take us straight home, took us to Motherfuckin’ Fort-Fucking-Henry. Being someone with a bladder the size of a Kinder Egg, I was used to holding it; I could probably win at least silver in the holding-your-piss Olympics, but this was another level. 45 minutes into this godforsaken bus ride from hell I felt a pain I had never felt; I had never before had an organ burst, but at that moment I felt I was fairly close. 
My friend, bless her, grabbed me a cup, but peeing in a cup standing still and sober is hard enough for a girl; I determined I needed to get off the bus3. In the middle of nowhere, I decided I needed to get off at the next stop. I’m pretty sure we had ended up at St. Lawrence somehow (ffs). My friends filed off the bus before me, coming to terms with the fact that we’d have to take a taxi home, but I was not having it. I went up to the bus driver and said something along the lines of “Hey, so, here is the deal, I don’t know where I am and I think my bladder might explode and it’d be really cool if you just wait 30 seconds while I pee. Please. pleasepleasepleasepleeeasssse?” 
He must have nodded because I flew off the bus, I don’t think I hit any of the steps. I remember now that he motioned me forward so the people on the bus didn’t see me drop trou, but I wasn’t thinking about anything but peeing. I waddled a few steps away from where my friends were standing, atop of a fairly sizable snowbank, dropped my drawers and peed with the force of a great typhoon. Apparently I was in full view of the bus still, and the driver started pulling away. The way I remember it I fell to my knees and uttered a painful “nooooooo”, throwing my arms into the air as if the Gods had wronged me4. He did actually wait, he was pulling forward to give me the privacy I didn’t really care about having. What felt like hours later we all clambered back onto the bus, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and continued on the long journey home. 
When we finally reached home, I called my mother to thank her for all the times she made me pee before leaving anywhere. Thanks, Mom. 
(1) I should interject here to state that I am a fairly small human, sliding in just below 5ft in height and weighing in at a solid non-of-your-business lbs, my tolerance is meek at best.
(2) Now is as good a time as any to enter the mandatory TMI information necessary to emphasize this unfortunate tale. My body metabolizes alcohol like it is a waterslide for beer. In and out without stopping at go, it’s a horrible impairment.  
(3) This was in the middle of the 2014 winter hell, btw. 
(4) Apparently the only sound (other than the steady stream of piss), was a faint whimper and my small voice stating: ‘But he promised to wait’.