I hate flying.
I'm not scared of flying, mind you. Mankind's been sending little metal boxes into the air for a long time now, I trust we've got the physics down (it's the little stuff that we screw up).
I'm also not afraid of terrorists. Hell, I work in a building that was bombed, I can't exactly feel any more frightened getting on a Southwest Airlines flight. American Airlines? Sure, that's different.
Speaking of which-- I already screwed that part up, forgetting to check in with Southwest 24 hours early. I'm now in Group B for a non-stop transcontinental flight. I just know that I'm going to get the middle bitch seat now.
See, that's why I hate flying: I hate being cooped up in a tin can for hours on end. It's hard enough to do short hops to Chicago every now and again, but flying out west to places like Vegas or L.A. is brutal. I don't like spending six straight hours doing anything (well, almost anything-- but I ain't flyin' Virgin Atlantic here).
The whole experience is simply awful. The check-in, the waiting, the boarding, the delays, the cramped flight itself. It would all be so much easier if I could just beam to Los Angeles tonight. You know, like how Tom Cruise travels.
And what's worse? Flippin' Ernesto is now a tropical storm again, and likely to be dumping a gazillion gallons of water on BWI when I fly out tonight. I would have missed all that had I stuck with my earlier flight, but nooo, I had to reschedule for this evening. Joy.
Anyway, if anything happens to me on this trip, remember these as my last words: AVENGE ME!!!
Don't cry for me boys. . . Don't ever cry for me again. . .