That after this year I would have conquered my fear of flying.


That would make sense.

Except I’m still scared.

I do not want to take off

I do not want to land

I do not want to be suspended in the air in a giant hunk of flammable metal

I do not want to struggle to put my crap in the overhead compartment while people stand behind me waiting to board

I do not want to read the plastic card that shows you what to do in case of an emergency.

You know they don’t put words on the damn cards, just pictures. I like words. I like extra explanation.

I do not want to sit there freaking out while nobody else listens to the in case of emergency speech.

Why does nobody listen?! Don’t they know we could totally crash into the ocean!?

I don’t even want to go through security. I’m always terrified I’ll be accidentally carrying a switch blade or someone slipped anthrax in my pocket.

Actually. The only thing I like about the airport is the smell of pretzel time. Of course I’m always too nauseated to actually eat one. But you can’t beat that delicious smell.

Good thing there’s a boyfriend at the end of the airline crapolah festival that is flying.

Otherwise I’d totally want my money back.