Never Trust a Man With Kind Eyes

A theme is emerging: Making very poor life choices in the name of saving $20.

And so you find yourself at 3 a.m. on a 9-hour bus from England to Paris, napping next to a man with fingers the width of Polish Kielbasa. You were forced to sit separately from your friends when you boarded the crowded coach, and upon first glance, the man in question had seemingly kind eyes. Upon second glance, he also had tufts of hair missing and smelled of hot garbage.

A police rendering of Sausage Fingers.

A police rendering of Sausage Fingers.

Still, you’re a trusting young lady. At 20, you’ve never been catfished on OkCupid, or told there’s no such thing as being “big-boned.” Those things are still to come. So you take a nap.

Until you suddenly awake, that is, to something poking your upper thigh: Two thick sausage fingers vigorously massaging your flesh. And then your bus buddy will lean in to your left ear and whisper a delicate yet dry-heave inducing “Gorgeoussss.”

In that moment you’ll realize that your semester aboard is going to be less Pride & Prejudice, more physical contact with a presumably homeless man wearing Velcro shoes.

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