Stoopid is eternal

27 Feb

Don’t talk to me about your daily travel paths because a) it’s boring (a fact not realised by that girl who once explained bus routes she had taken over the past 7 years) and b) because the odds are great that mine are far more neurotic than yours.

I get –holds breath — a little OCD about travelling. Same path, same routine, same seats and often the same songs. Oh yeah, it’s a blast this Amoir ride, no? Stare in awe at the motherfucking shimmer. Don’t even talk to me about how I need to have all tickets and coffee cards and change 200m before I even enter the fucking station. Still, I’m not as bad as my friend Rupert the Bear who cannot handle walking down main streets. To walk with the Bear is to walk down every alley, lane way and car park without reward. He doesn’t like to walk near people. And yet he appears to register my presence as we engage in charmingly pleasant repartee. It’s charmingly pleasant because it should come with cucumber sandwiches and tea. And not from ducking from humanity in an increasingly labyrinthine walk.

Just throwing this out there for fun: I still get turned on by the smell of “proper” garages. It’s that flat cold smell of oil, dust and emptiness that gets me going.

Anyhoo, so I was on the tram last night enjoying a particularly good playlist and recent travel path when a sprightly young chap got on. It’s at that moment you understand what Germaine Greer was prattling on about. There are times when a young guy (or even girl) is positively deified in their youthful perfection.

And this boy was but in quite the unobtrusive way. There was nothing particularly special about him and, quite frankly, I’d have trouble sketching him. But he was just perfect: all chiseled lines of aestheticism, doubt and amazingly blue eyes all tightly sprung in a man’s body. And deceptive, given his early 20’s frame was trying its hardest to do the disaffected loll while standing in a crowded tram.

Naturally, it will surprise none of you that he caught me looking at him. Thus began the whole “is he looking at me or looking at me looking at him” inner monologue. He’d look up and catch me looking at him and I’d break off from listening to the Smiths (the apt choice of “How Soon is Now?”) to find him looking at me. His inner monologue was most likely “why is anime cat face lady with the large headphones looking at me? My eyes feel burny!” but let’s not trouble ourselves with that, shall we?

But it was the most pleasant way to cap a Tuesday afternoon and left me quietly squealing as one should in thanks and appreciation. That and I’m a colossal perv.

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