I imagine waiting for death is a lot like waiting for the bus when it is 15 degrees outside wearing nothing but a thin-layered sweater. Your smart phone declares it would only be 10 more minutes, but that was 17 minutes ago. You wonder if the bus broke down and if walking to a closer stop would make a difference. It wouldn’t. Your mind races with curses for the bus driver. God forbid if the bus is full too because you will become homicidal. You begin a list in your head of things you will perform once you arrive at your apartment – a warm bath – add two layers of socks - cuddle with the pet – read a book while wearing that horrible gag gift of a Snuggie which you shamefully wanted since it came out – sleep. You check your clock once again. 23 minutes pass. You look at the others around you and mouth, “what the fuck” while shrugging your arms as if they couldn’t tell what you said. You check your phone again, and it reads, 10 more minutes. 

-me