So I love nothing more than the shocked looks of slight disgust I get shot when washing down a sleeping pill with a glass of wine while commencing an international flight. It's like, "that's the kind of shit we see unruly adolescents doing on 'law and order' just before they die and lead chrish and marish on a beautifully-edited hour of intense, climactic forensic investigation."
It's always interesting to contemplate who your seat mates will be, and fantasies abound during this contemplation, like, "will I get seated next to a polyester-wearing spinster with red hair who smells of avon and passes the flight crocheting, telling me about her yorkies and the gorgeous shade of aubergine her rarest of rare bed of mums will sprout this summer?" Or, "will I sidle in next to a slightly-balding, tan, hairy-forearmed hottie in a polo shirt with whom I'll exchange hand jobs?"
I've got eight-and-a-half long hours to contemplate my life and fate, and I'm beginning to think that, aside from a pot-induced haze, moments like this must seriously foster the creativity necessary for the most ethereal forms of entertainment, i.e. 'eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,' or 'rock of love: the love bus.'
I love life, and if I keep reminding myself of that, I'll eventually garner the high praises certain individuals preternaturally receive from the fates.
Loves ya'll--be back once I've landed in milalalan.
X's and O's