I made the mistake of letting the chatty lady next to me on this 5-hour bus ride, sitting with her son (who was sleeping at the time), know that I’m a teacher. Since then, her son has woken up and proved himself to be the WORST. He seems to have mistaken this charter bus for a Broadway stage, and himself for Nathan Lane in The Birdcage. But louder and more dramatic.

The mom, inexplicably, is amused by this, despite the fact that everyone else on the bus is undoubtedly plotting the child’s murder. Or her murder. Or mass murder. The guy across from me has turned up the volume on his iPod full blast. The woman next to him appears to be praying to Allah. The man in front of me seems to have just given up on enjoying this ride, and possibly on life entirely.

The mom smiles at me. “You’re a teacher. You must love kids.”
Me: “Sure do.”

From 8-3pm. On a work day. When they are under MY control.

Your song-screaming child, in this moment, is, make no mistake, my worst nightmare. Never again will I be able to enjoy Beauty and the Beast. Or music in general. All sounds, really.

So, no, kid. I will NOT be your guest. Do you hear me? Neither will that guy, or that lady, or that old man. NO ONE HERE WANTS TO BE YOUR GUEST.

You may also NOT have one of my skittles. So don’t ask again.