A lot of people don't have much trouble getting out of bed in the morning.
It's true. I've seen it on television, I've seen it in the movies, and I've seen it in the chipper smiles of a cavalcade of Starbucks-fueled classmates of mine for most of my prior twelve years of schooling.
So when I tell you that I woke up ten minutes before the bus came on my first day of school senior year, I want you to comprehend the depth of my love for sleep.

Of course, as they say, love hurts.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck..." I spat out with every slam of my foot on pavement, desperately praying beyond rational hope that the school bus would be late today, if only by the two minutes that my phone tells me I'm running late. What I saw as I rounded the corner would have caused me to stop and stare if I wasn't still desperately sprinting.

'I'm pretty sure that there weren't three buses last year...' was my first thought. '... and why are they all bus 52?'

Aligned and in motion along the street as I ran were three identical copies of bus 52, the bus that I'd ridden since the district sold bus 83 in my sixth grade year due to budget cuts. The farthest bus from me was clearly a lost cause; I would never get to it before it pulled around the curb. The second bus- which to my great confusion was both somewhat transparent, and outlined in a blue glow- was at my stop, closing its doors behind one of my chubby neighbors. Not happening.

So, with all the willpower that a half-asleep eighteen-year-old can muster, I banked all of my hopes on the third and last bus, slight red glow and all. I felt a bitch of an itch behind my eyes in a place that even my seasonal allergies hadn't irritated before, and in a blink the first two buses disappeared.

I don't mean that they pulled around the curb. I mean poof; gone in an instant. Vanished without a trace, my compliments to Mister Houdini.

'Well, that's new...' I managed to think, bemused. Chalking it up as a particularly bad case of sleep-brain that warranted substantial investigation, I nonetheless breathed a sigh of relief when my slightly-panting self found my seat aboard the very real, very solid, and very not-ghostly bus. I even smiled.

Senior year. Back of the bus is finally fair game.