(diaryland) November 26, 2004 - 10:19 a.m.

On the way home on the train last night, there were two drunk men. They swayed back and forth near where I was sitting. They both had wedding rings on. There was an old one with an old blazer on and a young one with an odious purple shirt on and a mauve tie.

The young guy asked the old guy what year it was. The old guy, who was about to collapse, said it was 1996. Then the young guy went on a slurring tirade about exactly how wrong the old guy was.

By this point, I already hated the young guy.

Then, the young guy looked at me and said something to the old guy about people with red hair. People always seem to be talking about people with red hair and their personality traits like they're some kind of alien race who might live with humans, but can never really adjust.

I couldn't hear exactly what the young purple-shirted guy was saying about people with red hair, buy whatever it was, I hated it. I made a face and rolled my eyes. I wasn't ballsy enough to kick his arse.

Most of the time, I don't realise that I have orange hair. Those are my favourite times.