I write a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like so much writing you could physically drown in it. That's if you were 30 or so centimeters tall and prone to getting stuck in loose sheets of notebook paper. Usually when you tell a person you write though, they think you write stories. I can't. My characters and plots just never seem to flow like they should . I do however write nonsensical crap, call it humor, then post it on the internet for you to read. Whether you're doing that voluntarily, or there's a guy named Brutus at your house right now because I'm paying him 7 pounds an hour to make you. I don't know. If Brutus is there however, send him my regards.
I feel as if bus seats are positioned in a way that was intended to make you speak to people. It's as if someone sat down and thought that the most practical way to get people to interact with each other was to design seats so incredibly close to each other, that avoiding conversation would be pretty much impossible. And just to make it all that more painful, they designed those God awful seats at the back. Like it's somehow going to encourage you to spark up a conversation with the guy sat directly in front of you when your legs are so insanely close to his that your practically groping him with your legs. It's all kinds of weird.
There's always that weird guy on the bus too. He's the one who just doesn't seem to grasp the fact that he shouldn't sit next to someone if the bus is almost completely empty. It doesn't help that this guy is 60 and smells like how a slow and painful death would feel. It's even worse when the guy sat next to you is that 15 year old boy that smells like he hasn't showered in an entire decade.
There'll be a lady somewhere, with her phone in hand, chattering loudly at a hundred words per minute. Her hotline will always bling. She'll probably have a foreign accent too. Or at least it'll seem like it. Her words won't manage to come out in anything resembling English. Her o's sounding like a's and s's randomly placed at the end of words. You're not sure if she's drunk or not, but she isn't and you're not insane for thinking so.
The guy on your right is most certainly a drug dealer, even though he doesn't really look like it. Other than the occasional whiff of lung killer you get from his direction once in a while, he seems clean. Right? Wrong! He's always carrying that questionable little black bag in the mornings; the one he's grasping ever so tightly as he stumbles off the bus. That bag is a drug bag for sure.
And sometimes you'll meet a screaming child or two and it will suck. But if you blare your music loud enough and drown out the deafening wails, it almost sounds like there isn't a 7 year old satanic demon child crying to his overlord.
Also, my friends now know about the blonde guy with the permed hair and although it was a joke at first, I'm going to milk it a little further. It's fun really. I'm now referring to him as 'Bootang' (pronounced boo- thang with an almost offensive Chinese twang to it.). It might get to a stage where he realises and thinks I'm harassing him. And speaking of harassing boys, I'm pretty sure having your name called out in a crowded lunch room is borderline harassment. But its not like I did that. At break. 3 meters away from the mildly attractive guy I was referring to.