The Joy of Travel
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I like to travel.
Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.
Aside from all that, I love to travel.
The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:
I am traveling alone
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.
The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.
See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.
Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.
God bless Big Tobacco.
[*sigh*]
[LOBO]
I like to travel.
Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.
Aside from all that, I love to travel.
The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.
The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.
See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.
Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.
God bless Big Tobacco.
[*sigh*]
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