On the bus, I like to sit in the sideways seats. I don’t know if they have those all the world ’round, but I wouldn’t live anywhere that didn’t. Firstly, no one can pin me in up against a window, and I need not pin anyone in. Plus, I get to sit directly facing the people on the other side of the bus. If there’s a backward facing seat I’ll take it, naturally. I won’t make eye contact with anyone, but the idea that someone could be looking at me the whole time will make me feel sick. I like that nowadays.

I’ve digressed (in life, this story, etc).

I sat today in my sideways seat, staring at a wrapper of some sort on the floor of the bus. I don’t know what the wrapper was from, it was maybe green. It was under the seat opposite, up against the wall. To the left of it was a right foot, to the right of it a left. I was, as it turns out, staring quite intently between a woman’s legs.

As the bus crossed the Harbour Bridge, I went to bring my eyes up to the sunset, but my gaze dragged from the wrapper, up the flubber of this woman’s legs, bumping over her pregnant belly and boobs, eventually getting stuck on her eyes, which were looking right at me with some sort of emotion I’ve probably never felt. General shittiness I suspect. I’m going to chuck out ‘indignation’ without bothering to Google it to check I’m using it correctly.

“What are you looking at” she said with her eye holes.

“Not you. Pregnant chicks don’t do it for me. Ya fat skank.” I beamed to her soul with photons.

“Take a photo, it lasts longer” she spat through her glasses.

“Oh don’t flatter yourself. What are you, 40 or something?” I growled inaudibly and threw her an imaginary copy of this I keep with me for just such an occasion.

This went on for quite some time. Or maybe it was all in my head and she was just constipated.

The fact that she looked old and was probably 5 years younger than Erica made me happy.

Suck it, pregnant bitch.

As I write this, I’m listening to a Dubstep Christmas Gospel song. I shit you not.