By: Kelly Chia, Humour Editor

Dear . . . Hah, you could never be dear again, so hell-o 143,

You may not remember me, but I sure as hell remember you. Yeah, that’s right, I’m the student you leave stranded at eight in the evening in the pouring rain. I think you are ashamed of yourself — you must be. Every time I descend from Burquitlam station, you’ve conveniently driven off without so much as a sign that you’d like to wait for me.

So be it. 

I remember your history. We used to ride from Coquitlam station to SFU together, remember? Back before you got all hoity-toity and posted yourself at Burquitlam. Ah, those were the times, going up that scenic mountain as we drove past the line of people waiting just one stop past the station. We laughed at those poor fuckers, didn’t we? I should have known you were toxic back then. But I was young, naïve, and ready to bus, bus, fall in love. I nodded off against those uncomfortably cold pane windows on hard back seats countless times, listening to my main character soundtrack. You were perfect for my imagination.

So perfect, in fact, that when you first left me stranded at 11:00 a.m. as my final exam had been cancelled and SFU had once again declared a snow day too late, I didn’t even blink. I just thought, “Ah, that’s reasonable, nothing can make it up these hills.” And then it happened again and again. I spent many days trudging down those hills feeling alone. I was the embodiment of the walking emoji: emotionless, hands in my pockets, and lonely.

I thought, it’s SFU’s fault, not my 143’s. The transit is still 10 minutes shorter than the 145, and the lines aren’t as scary! Plus, I’m too young and hip to commit to my full license or any sort of parking pass! Like I said, that was before I knew you. Before I took any evening class, where I realized you could never be there for all of me. Before I got stranded for the 10th time because I made the mistake of thinking it would be okay to take the bus between 2:00 p.m.–3:00 p.m. without being humbled by the horror of grade school children. 

Enough of dredging up our past. I am writing this as a farewell. I just want you to know that when the Gondola is built three decades after I graduate, I will be riding it up the mountain staring at you the whole time. But until then, you should know that I hate you.

Until my next class tomorrow,

Kelly