I found this today while flicking through a notebook, and seeing as I can't be bothered coming up with anything to post, here it is:

Country. Public. Transport. A combination of words to fill you with horror.

The quiet 7.30 run with loud Vega FM. The abundance of teens who live there and tote around Supre bags, which are not really a replacement handbag in any sense. Combine that with trackpants and my overwhelming desire to scream. Especially when they involve horrible flourescent colours.

Trackies, Supre bags, some weird variety of country-meets-Frankston wear. Emo/punk-wannabe guys who look like they think life is all pain in between hittin' on chicks and working at the local supermarket to earn some money for hairdye.

And there's so much greyness. Cardigans, shirts, camel-toe trackies... All in varying shades of blandness.

A lone kangaroo in a sun-filled patch between trees in a scrap of bushland looks up as the bus rushes past. The sun's further up in the sky, glinting in the corner of my eye. On top of that, we're inflicted with U2.

A bee fuzzes along at the window as we pull up at traffic lights, disappears as we drive off. The bus pulls up a few metres ahead to let some elderly people and guys with bad hair onto the bus. One smells like cigarette smoke and the attempt to cover it up...

I guess you could say it's a love/hate relationship with public transport. Melbourne trains are fascinating, though - never fail to have freaks on there, such as the guy who spent 15 minutes or more telling a friend and I about the evils of plastic shopping bags, which according to him, make houses burn down. Not that they're bad for the environment. No. THEY. BURN. DOWN. HOUSES.