Picture this: I'm sitting on a shuttle bus in the middle of a paddock. As I stare absentmindedly out the window - I watch two girls stumble arm-in-arm towards the coach. Sporting bedazzled bralettes, sheer skirts and a healthy dose of body glitter; they arrive on board moments before the driver sounds the *beep* of the closing door. At last... the only thing lying between me and my comfy bed is the 30-minute drive home along a meandering country highway. My soundtrack? A drunk guy talking jibberish to his mate. As the bus pulls away, I catch one last glimpse of the sun setting over the makeshift stage. Adios, day-drinking festival, see you never. I kick my sneakers off under the seat in front of me, now sitting barefoot and cross legged on the well-worn bus seat (yes, I'm that person). My feet are tired, my social battery is running on -20%, and my stomach still feels queasy from the deep-friend potato stick I ate four hours ago. Oh... did I mention it's only 8:30pm on...
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