“Life is a buffet line where you can’t go back for seconds.”
A man decided to travel the world. Wherever he went that he hadn’t been before he had to constantly ask questions about where to go, what to eat, and what to do. He carried the suitcase with him on every trip, and as a souvenir he collected a sticker from each new place — but he didn’t stick them anywhere. He kept his suitcase clean and free of markings. One day he put all of his collected stickers on at once, and then people started asking him questions about where to go, what to eat, and what to do, so he started giving advice, even though he had never been there before.
You don’t need to have experience to know how to do something. Sometimes you just need someone to ask you a question.
Disclaimer: I have no idea if this is any good. I just typed it down and didn’t bother to read it. Don’t ask me how that works. It’s probably littered with typos and nonsense, but really—what’ snew?
Also, before I begin, I would like to pay respects to the two brave pens that gave their lives for this nonfictionalized account. They bled for this story, and it only seems fair to honor them with a brief moment of silence:
And now, if we could; a moment of screaming in gut wrenching guilt and agonizing mourning:
Much appreciated. They will be mist.
Now, lettuce begin…
Saturday, Jan 26th: The day started with the pissing down of rain at about 1.5” per day, and in O.C., that’s a debilitating amount. At the terminal the lady said my bags needed to fit easily into the little sizer box thing, and I thought “does it really matter if it fits easily? What if I have to kick it in, but it still fits?” There’s no point for style.
There was a lady and her dog sitting next to me. I was wasting time on the internet and thought she was talking to her whining dog about flight information, but she was actually on the phone; however she then hung up and continued to talk to her dog about people stuff. She told a random person “She wants to say hi to you,” and the person got out of their seat and went over to kneel down and kiss the dog’s ring, or whatever the hell miss dog lady was expecting them to do.
“He probably smells my dog.” How many times have I heard that? Or maybe he smells your fragrant pants area.
“Oh, it’s a she? Sorry, I didn’t know.” Ugh. It doesn’t matter what gender it is if it is going to keep whining and barking on the plane. However, miss dog said the furry thing curls up in a bag and sleeps stowed under the seat in front. Fair enough.
The PA system called “all passengers to board a flight to Phoenix, but I didn’t want to go to Phoenix, so I got on the plane to Seattle when they told “all passengers” to board that flight. I’m pretty good at remember faces, and I saw a flight attendant that I recognize from two previous Alaska Airlines flights. I didn’t look at her nametag because that’d just be weird. The strangest way I can put this is that she has really big eye-wells, like her eyes are sunken into her face by the gradual tug of gravity due to the weight of her brain. Another flight attendant zoomed down the aisle without pause and told me to turn off my book. Suffice to say I was confused, and closed my book anyways. It’s never given me confidence when they make us turn off our ipods and headphones on takeoff and landing, like listening to the latest hit by Taylor Swift will somehow send the plane into a tailspin. There are no babies near me. I am a happy man. I put on my noise cancelling head thingies and tried to nod off. It’s strange getting used to noise cancelling headphones because the way it works is it essentially blares silence into your ears, so there’s still pressure from sound waves in your ears even though there’s no sound, like the feeling that my ears are constantly going to pop… or maybe I’m on a plane.
I landed in Seattle. It was weird because I didn’t even step out of the airport. I didn’t even check the weather; it was grey (is it “grey,” or “gray?”). I rendezvoused rather seamlessly with mumsy and we checked the heavy stuff and walked through the non-existent security lines. For a moment I didn’t know what to do because there was no line to file into. I just kind of stood there expecting to wait. When we got to the terminal I had to clarify to the jovial “Runway Grill” guy that I wanted 2 cheeseburgers, not just one. Mumsy thought he was Jamaican, but he was just from the city. Maybe he wishes he was from Jamaica. Runway Grill sounds like they cook burgers on the tarmac, which fortunately they tasted like they weren’t. Initially I read “Runaway Grill,” which launched me towards a series of alternate themes for the restaurant.
While eating, Mumsy and I wondered what you are supposed to call Icelandic people. Is it “Icelanders,” or is it something random and cool, like how Netherlands people are Dutch, Belgians speak Flemish, and New Zealanders are Kiwis. A bit of googling revealed it’s just “Icelanders.” How disappointing. In the Iceland travel ads there’s a package where you can go on a six day excursion to go “knitting with the elves” –no joke– so I’m just gonna call them ‘elves’ to stay entertained. There’s a lot of folklore in them thar elfish hills, eventually leading our discussion to another important issue: what’s the difference between elves and gnomes? I’ve only known gnomes (knowmes?) as garden-dwelling dunces and have no knowledge of their folklore or mischeivery, but apparently google labels a gnome as a diminutive ground dwelling guardian of Earth’s precious treasures or something like that – developed in Renaissance times. I didn’t look up elves, but I’ve seen the Keebler commercials from the 90’s, so I’m pretty well verse.
Once on the plane and seated, the head of ground control got on the PA and joked that none of our bags were on the flight with us… except she wasn’t joking. She explained that weather was looking bad in Iceland and we had to carry more fuel in case we’d be forced to land in Glasgow instead. “In order to carry the extra weight, some luggage and passengers had to be eliminated.” Her exact words. I thought I was flying ‘Mafia Air’ for a second. She continued to inform us through the ambiance of sighs, yelps, and a few “F-you’s,” that our bags have been put on the next flight, and to make sure we fill out a lost baggage form when we land. I don’t know why they would hold Us accountable for bags we didn’t lose, but they are. The alternative solution was to stop in Canada for a refuel, but then people would miss their connections… I guess we night be going to Scottland.