Next I'll trash a Motel 6

Saturday night, 7:30 p.m.: I mention to Cory that I'm heading to New York in the morning. She says, "You're really living the rock-star lifestyle lately."

Fast-forward 12 hours: I'm perched on a plastic chair at the Greyhound terminal that is called Union Station, but is not really in Union Station, it's about two blocks away, and they are the longest blocks in the world when the weather is bad, which it always is when I go to New York. Bloomberg should ban me from crossing any bridge onto Manhattan. I'm soaked from head to toe from the walk in the rain. I'm eating breakfast from the restaurant in the terminal, which used to be a Hardee's but at some point became a generic Greyhound cafeteria that sells a variety of food that sounds better than it actually is, and an astonishing lineup of packaged junk food. My breakfast consists of:

1) Greasy bacon and a just-barely-edible egg on a stale, greasy biscuit.

2) Lukewarm tea, from a Styrofoam cup. The cashier accidentally gave my tea to another customer, who brought it back, and the cashier threw it in the trash, and I said the tea was supposed to be mine, and she pondered the situation for a few seconds and said, "You know what? I'm going to make you a new one." That totally should be their slogan. Greyhound Food Service: We Don't Give You Food We Fished Out Of The Trash.

So I'm eating my hey-it's-food biscuit and drinking my not-from-the-garbage tea and hoping my jeans dry very soon and I remember Cory's comment, and I laugh and laugh. Out loud.

Which, in a Greyhound terminal, looks not out of place in the slightest.