The thoughts of a writer. – Leigh :) Stark

'Bugger,' I think to myself as I try on this new shirt, a black tee with the words "Grand Theft Autio IV" emblazoned on the front. 'This shirt is a body hugger.'

It is. Its soft black fabric tightens over my body and shows off the curves I'd prefer not to have and prefer greatly that people wouldn't see.

I switch it with a slightly elasticated and more comfortable grey business shirt I got from CEO last year when my brother was buying a new suit, his first real suit.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking to a bus stop where barely thirty seconds after I reach the piece of pavement set aside as a bus stop, two 381 buses stop and those of us standing board the vehicle of our choice.

They're all technically the same as they all go to the same place but I choose the emptier one all the same. I take a seat near the back.

The bus has a smell of clean, spit, polish, bleach. It hits you when you get on the bus and you know that whoever cleaned this bus must be anal retentive.

The smell is everywhere. It's on the poles, the floor, and it floats above the standing room as if ordered to levitate there like a grandiose Uri Gellar impressionist.

Near the back of the bus, the smell is different but it's still there. A smell of spit and shine, of bleach and coconut.

A girl behind me talks non-stop on her cell phone, and with every twist of her delicate neck releases more of the coconut smell with which she packed on in small arms dealer sizes this morning.

I turn around and see she wears sunglasses underneath her two-hundred dollar fringe, the smell beginning to bother me the more blended it becomes. The smell of bleach and spit, of coconut and shine and the incessant yapping to her friend about MySpace at work or if MySpace is her work, and I wonder if she ever gets anything done? or if she just lives off of rumour and supposition.

The doors open and I rush out, running down the flat sun-slicked steps and wondering if anyone else leaving that bus is a writer. I walk past the ads, the attendants, the slow-pokes and wonder if anyone else is a writer.

I also wonder why people don't move faster. With one minute to go, the speed with which some people "rush" is seen as too slow for me. 'If they want to stroll by at a leisurely pace, could they please do it on the left where the more casual standing mob are?' I think to myself, the thoughts bouncing around my head like hyper children set on fire by the grandmaster Satan himself.

I jog over to the train, probably around 45 seconds or so until the train departs. I stand in the carriage near the doors.

A man next to me sprints in and stands next to me, his iPod earbuds / iBuds blaring and no doubt deafening him to a degree with which he'll work out in five or ten years when he can't hear the fire drill that might save his life.