The Great Divide

Firstly I have to lament once again my star-crossed fate with bus 502. I try my damnest to catch the 8.44am bus, and maybe 3/5 days I arrive at the bus stop at 8.45am only to see the dust trail of the 502 that just left. 2/5 days when I arrive at the bus stop at 8.35am the blardy bus is actually late at 8.50am. Either way I don't get to work as on time a I want. Curses.

As usual today I get to the bus stop only to see the smoke from the exhaust pipe. Aiyah. Another 16 mins wait for the next one. Hmmm, I've pangs for a hash brown. Wonder if I could make it on time if I were to cross over to Shaw and grab a hash and then dash to the bus stop? What if the bus came early and that means I'll have to spend $9 on a cab to get to work. It's like a cow stuck at the crossroads and wondering which way to go.

On the bus and sans hashbrown, I was reading my latest rental whodunnitthriller trashy novel. I'm pretty sure trashy novels are written by women with unfulfilled sexual fantasies. 6 pages just to describe a romp in the sack?? The guy is usually some broadchested hunk with a great bod, seething with 'raw masculinity' (I roll my cow eyes upward), and of course, all of them men are masterful lovers who make the women's thighs quiver like jelly (who writes these thing these days anyway??!) and all the other unmentionables. Now, compare it with the men who write thriller novels. Intimate scenes are anything between 3 lines to 3 paragraphs. Whambamthankyoumam. Now that's what I call a quickdraw. Thank god I've come a loooooong way since those days of reading uber trashy novels with Fabio on the cover with some bimbo en deshabille. Heaving bosoms, pulsating pecs and throbbing manly parts (I'm choking on my coffee even as I type). Poor poor deprived authors. Then again, there's nothing sexy about a cow standing there getting her udders squeezed and milked by strange men as the world waits for their daily ration of milk butter and cheese. It's all business.