2005-12-05
The one before me
You know those greasy stains that clamour against the cool minimalist perspex bus windows with their expansionist tentacles of hair grease? I hate those.
For one, it always makes me wonder what kind of potent hair grease leaves such an uncomely mark. And then it makes me wonder what kind of person actually produces such potent hair grease.
One of the most uncomfortable situations, I have found, is to find yourself pressed millimeters away from one of those things, as often happens when you're considerate like me, and slide to the inner seats. But each time, the fascination sheer horror brings drowns out the disgust and I find myself increasingly, and somewhat disturbingly attracted to the stains.
Was the producer a he or she? Was he/she old? Did he/she fall asleep? Or was it just a bad day?
And when I sink into my usual bus-ride-home reverie after a long day, it takes every ounce of will (and good sense) to prevent myself from dissolving in the mould.
nothing ever happens at 10:14 p.m.