when i wear sunglasses in airports, i feel like a rock star.


a familiar warmth. bedhead. a slow pulse from the ceiling fan.







don’t open your eyes. don’t do it.




halfway between 5:00 AM and a sleep induced coma, there was a dream. something about friends with faces carved from cheddar cheese … it was just intriguing enough to keep my mind stimulating and the rest of me procrastinating my impending awakening.

so grab the covers, and curl a stray toe or two underneath. stay here.


breathe.


so what is the longest humanly possible time i can manage to lie here anyway? a few failed attempts at obeying an alarm clock only make the looming transition into reality more imminent. rationalization: thinking you can sleep, then get up, get ready, pack, eat, and say your goodbyes all before 5:00 AM with T-minus 11 minutes & counting.


5:06 AM comes, I wave with my fingers for the last time to my mom and one of the dogs in her arms. reality hits.


i’m not sure why, but the drive to the plane has always been a thing of beauty to me. something out of a fairytale: it almost feels like waiting in line for the Indiana Jones adventure at disneyland, watching all the things you pass on the way to your ride that somehow enrich the ride ahead with excitement, anticipation, curiosity of the unknown. Indiana Jones, however, doesn’t typically have complimentary ginger ale. That’s probably the only thing airlines have going for them in my books actually.


So many shapes of people. So many different kinds of cellphone ringtones. So many faceless voices shouting out mildly-pleasant directions at me from the speakers. the awkward shuffling between people at the boarding gate feels like a lab rat-esque experiment. oh wait, are you B41? you can’t cut me off, I’m B39. That’s right, B39. As if my two-digit superior status was, in fact, superior.


2:01 PM: over priced ELLE magazine while I wait? don’t mind if I do.


emergency exit seats are taken; damn you business class medium height workmen who get to board first. thus the on-going saga of zero leg room continues.


clouds are so silly looking from 30,000 feet above, like melting marshmallows. oh but marshmallows inflate, right? i’m really just thinking of that junior high game, chubby bunny. i was never very good at that, but katie coffee claimed she once shoved 32.5 marshmallows in her 4th grade mouth once. but you know, i don’t ever think i’ve ever seen a melting marshmallow. probably because my s’mores are typically blackened to death.


noise canceling headphones are God’s gift to mankind. especially when i wind up in front of the seemingly unchaperoned wild child who apparently kicks the backs of chairs as a hobby. come to think of it, that kid seems to find me in Indiana Jones too.




sip your ginger ale, turn your head, glimpse the new york skyline.


okay, now the clouds look like whipped frosting. i guess we know who’s hungry.




i’ve yet to see a cabbie with a last name containing a reasonable amount of vowels. i’m sorry, mr. i-only-have-foreignly-assorted-consonants-for-a-last-name, but could you get me back any faster? i think i hear my bed calling my name.


welcome home, miss johnson.

thank you, marcell. it’s good to be home.



a newly familiar warmth. slippers. the fast pulse from the city below.



don’t ever close your eyes, kirsten. don’t do it.

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