Just when I figured out how to work the magic on The Wife‘s parents’ gargantuan schizo cat I had to fly back, all the way across the continent. Coast to fucking coast. And I fucking hate it. Not only do I hate coming back to this particular soul-sucking part of New England, but I also hate the process of flying.
First of all, I’m always afraid my luggage will get lost. Then I also noticed that my body handles flying less and less as I grow older and fatter, so I feel like shit. Like having a hangover, just from dehydration, not booze. So I drink what I think is a reasonable amount of water when traveling, but then at the same time I’m also anxious about going to the bathroom to pee every 15 minutes, which of course adds to the anxiety about loosing my luggage or missing my connection or being disappeared by the TSA because I refused the body scanner, all of which, of course, makes me need to go and pee even more often. It’s a fucking vicious circle!
So I was already kinda delirious because of nervousness and dehydration, drinking cranberry, sorry cranAPPLE juice, which by the way contains almost 15% actual ‘juice mix’ and two kinds of corn syrup and one kind of sugar, because I read that drinking cranberry juice is supposedly good for your prostate — i.e. prevents the big C from setting up camp down there.
On top of that there is, of course, the shlepping.
Aside from that everything went fine, no delays, luggage did not get lost, and I got home alright.
There was also a guy on my plane who wore two baseball hats on top of each other.
People are fucking morons, really.