More Bus Etiquette

Last night on the bus ride home I had the pleasure of sitting across from a small hairy hippie girl with a one-note guitar. I was so very pleased. After a long hard day of spamming people, I really find the plinking of one note over and over quite soothing. Such a dulcet sound. What the hell was she thinking? Why was it okay for her to bust out her tiny guitar and strum her way to my damnation?

First of all, the outfit had to go. Some sort of mish mosh that started with an old straw cowboy hat and ended with lace (LACE!) leggings and well-aged Chucks. Now I really have nothing against people dressing poorly, it's what makes my life worth living. But this, this was a travesty. Beneath the lace leggings lay a thick carpet of dark hippie girl leg hair, which also brambled its way out from under the elastic bands of said leggings. Second, there was not but two seconds from the time she sat down to the time she pulled out the instrument of doom and started plucking out madness in the key of C.

Everyone was having a difficult time with hippie girl playing, but no one would say anything, unless it was out the side of their mouths or under their breath. Now I, while horrified by the ensemble of lace and follicular mayhem, and crazed by the incessant one-string picking, was stalwartly trying to read my Mormon-Fundamentalists-murdered-an-innocent-woman-and-her-baby book. I had no interest in being the one to tell hippie girl to cram it. But then someone else did. And it was a joyous occasion, but the discourse between hippie and girl and the savior was not without some rough spots. Hippie girl demanded that the savior say please before she would stop; the savior bristled at this but complied in the end. And all was quiet.

Until the drunk guy started hacking up a lung. Perfect.