A flight with “Fiances”
So first I’ll admit: I was so grumpy on my 7 am flight that I could have been a dwarf for Snow White. Or a dwarf in any other Hollywood fiction. Why are dwarves always written into stories as such angry little people? Short in stature does not equal short in compassion. That’s a weird thing to assume, Hollywood. But it is probably why I love Kevin Durant, he is soooooo compassionate (tall).
That’s not why I like him. I like Durant because I want a man who could fight for me (but choose to not). “You’ve insulted my love. I would beat you up, but I’m a better man than violence.” Physical strength in a mate is more important to me as I age. You either have to be strong enough to protect me or rich enough to pay someone to do it because my main concern is protecting these kids I don’t yet have. I feel the little fetuses bubbling up my uterus like a lava lamp. Ugh. Cliche. (Right? Lava lamp uterus = totally cliche.)
But I digress.
The fiances. The flight.
They asked me if I would switch seats because I had an empty seat next to me & they wanted to sit together. I said no because this morning I was determined to be miserable and take everyone with me. They were asking me to switch to a middle seat. Gross. Middle seats are the worst. Then again: this morning, so was I. I should have just switched. It would have given me a shortcut to supreme misery, without the silly illusion that this empty seat next to me would give my nasty mood the space to dissipate.
The fiancee did not take my “no” as THE “no.” She went on to ask the girl in the window seat. Unfortunately, THAT girl was a total sweetheart, and agreed to move. Damnit.
The couple slides in & immediately begin a make out session. I close my eyes tight to shut out the noise. It doesn’t work.
This is a couple that makes out on a plane, and I think the plane knew it when they booked their tickets.
“Teacher! Johnny & Emily are groping each other again!”
“Don’t make the separate you two!”
I didn’t mind that as much as the constant climbing in & out of their seats they were doing. They were probably excusing themselves to fuck in the bathroom, but I didn’t care enough to keep my eyes open and verify. All I know is: it’s not nice to wake someone up by poking them repeatedly with a hand that was probably just inside someone else. Ewww.
Anyway, we all know how this ends. I get off the plane, a “cynical and jaded 30-something that hated on a young couple’s happiness.” Right? That’s the judgement that’s made about any single person who actively resents a couple? “…You’re just JEALOUS.” I would rather be single than be SO in to one person that I am inconsiderate of everyone else.
And before people call me a hypocrite… I don’t mind couples that make out in bars. It is my belief that most people in bars are just looking for a makeout buddy anyway. So if you have that buddy in the place you probably found them… GET to KISSIN! But a plane is a place where I, as a non-paired person, have no escape. I am leashed to my seat like your dog at a picnic while you and your make out buddy go at it next to me. My only options are bathroom, sleep, or watch. I should have just stared @ them the whole time. Maybe put the complimentary blanket over my lap & kept my hands underneath, with a “creepy smile” resting face…and now I can’t wait for this to happen to me again.
This morning, I awoke to an argument in my hallway. My gay Trinidadian neighbor was screaming something in Patois to a chick that also lives on our floor. The only word I understood was “condom.” How did you start your day?
No excuses! (except this one)
I’ve been sick for a few days, so blogging has not been a priority. On a list of important while ill, it finishes about 10 places below “stand once today” and “don’t cry from feeling helpless against your body’s attempted murder of you.”
I become such a baby when I’m ill. The only thing that can save me during those times are soup from my Mom or a cuddle buddy. But who wants to cuddle the infirmed?
Peoples reactions to illness are pretty standard.
"How are you?"
“A little sick.”
“well don’t give it to me!” And then they attempt to get as far away from you as humanly possible, throwing stool-gauntlets & padlocking doors as if they were in their own version of Resident Evil.
“I’m not a walking virus!” you scream. “I’m still alive!”
"Don’t give it to me!"
Well there goes my day. Here I was, planning on spending all of my time finding ways to infect you. I’ll laugh in your face Hahaha! Now how are you feeling? I was going to pretend you were Inspector Cluseau from the Pink Panther, & I was the butler-ninja you hired to try to give you disease.
Seriously though. I wasn’t going to ask you to make out with me or anything… but a hug would be nice… now that you’re hugging me, you may as well kiss me… because sometimes when you’re sick nothing feels better than seeing someone with the same thing & thinking ”well at least I didn’t get it THAT bad.” So I guess you were right to be a bit defensive.
The answer is no, I haven’t blogged for 2 days. I was feeling the kind Of sick that can only be remedied by a bowl of soup acquired & delivered by a special Cuddle buddy & /or mom.
Would Ernest Hemingway be a lazy blogger?
It’s crazy to me that technology improves so quick. I am writing on a pretend notepad that is guessing what I log based on a microchip somewhere inside of it & the tip of a “stylus pen.” Soon I will think a word, & that same microchip will transcribe my thoughts. But will that improve my communication quality? Or make me lazier? I’m not sure, however I do know that my drunk blogs are not nearly as eloquent as For Whom the Bell Tolls.
then again, maybe Hemingway would have been lazy too.
-old man & the sea
He’s a pro! That’s way less than 140 characters!!
I think I’ll invest in a bagel. Well… half. #bigmoney #nyc #bagel
This post will be originated from “sideways in my bed.”
I could watch movies forever. And tonight, I did. Which is why you get sentence fragments in the place of valid arguments. I’ll unearth stuff on Tuesday.
I just yelled at my friend through the phone: “EVERYTHING’S A CHOICE!” while polishing off the last 1/3rd of a gallon of ice cream. Personal responsibility is the road to happiness. I’m like the Dali Llama of ice cream. I am at one with it. As in: it’s inside me, now.
Don’t Go To Bed Until You Have At Least One Night Stand.
"Oh yeah, Jaqi? Well don’t tell me what to not do!"
You’re right. A command was an aggressive start to something that should be very peaceful. Me telling you what to do in the title of a blog is like hanging an anti-abortion poster above my bed. Off-putting at best…
Although I do dream of meeting a person that has that poster in their bedroom. Clinging to the wall and/or dear life, like the cat to the tree branch…
….only it’s a fetus.
Eeesh. I apologize. Rough start. But not as rough as that fetus’ start in life… am I right???? Gross.
Back to the point….
I spent my 20s surrounded and heavily influenced by “Fight Club fans.” I’m not talking about people who think it’s a great film (which it is). I’m talking people who identify 100% with the message behind it. The ones who identify with Tyler Durden and see it as their job to burn down society as a whole. People who loved that my name was “Jaqi” because it is so close to “Jack.” The “all material possessions are evil, any sort of conformity to a standard way of life is you succumbing and becoming a sheep with the masses, shopping at IKEA is wrong, etc” types.
To them, it doesn’t matter if you’re thinking for yourself because if it appears that you agree with the masses that means you “don’t get it,” and you’re just plain wrong.
The problem with that view point is that you neglect to acknowledge: popular opinion became popular opinion because it MAKES SENSE. If someone has figured out that curtains keep light out of your apartment until you’re ready to wake up, and you sleep days/work nights, WHY WOULDN’T YOU GET F*CKING BLINDS, MAN?
The older I get, the more I am inclined to cliche. Because LIFE’s a cliche, man. (Sorry, hippie tourettes.)
My point is: last night, I moved a table next to my bed and adopted it as my night stand. Like a lost puppy, I claimed it as my own. And this morning, the world felt right. Not because I conformed, but because it’s nice to not set a water glass on a stack of empty shoe boxes.
Booze or Bad Films? You tell me which is more destructive.
All right, so it was bound to happen. I got home last night and didn’t get a blog up before I fell asleep. And I’ll tell you why. Around 7 years ago, on my way home from an evening with friends, I would’ve picked up a bottle of wine and trailed into oblivion alongside that last drop.
Now, years later, instead of popping a bottle, I came home and got drunk on a movie that Netflix is trying to pass off as a Halloween favorite.
1996. Michael J Fox. Ugh.
I think the worst thing a scary movie can do is start by showing who the bad guy is. And that’s how it starts. This is the weirdest terrible movie I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stop it. Like watching a train wreck, or my parents having sex.
I won’t spoil it for you though, cuz it does it for me.