*Wink*

Today I discovered the majesty of the BoltBus. Like its name suggests, the BoltBus traverses our terrestrial thoroughfares like a lancet of yellow fire thrown by Zeus himself. And by that I mean it takes I-95. By far, the best part of taking the BoltBus at 6AM from Philadelphia to New York was the air of smug satisfaction on each of the riders' faces, including (especially?) my own. If you ever need to find the BoltBus stop in your city, just look for the group of people on a street corner smirking off into the distance with their arms folded across their chests. Those knowing, vacant expressions glibly convey that "my ticket was 8-dollars- and I fucking love the yield management model". BoltBus even has its own caste system, where if you bought your tickets earlier and cheaper, you board first and with more seating options. People can walk up and buy tickets, but they are the BoltProletariat. Watch them pay with cash to fight over our seatly scraps! Or, in buying the more expensive Bolt walk-up ticket, are they the BoltBourgeosie? I could have stayed awake long enough to figure this out, but I slept for 100 minutes curled up against a window while a pleasant-smelling woman in her late thirties used the free wireless to do work. The mythical $1 fare has become my Moby Dick, however. I must have it.