Tragically Fine

No matter how early I leave or where I am flying, I am always sprinting to the gate. Feeling guilty for the two/one 90 year old siamese twin(s) I pushed into the waiting chairs. Always. I notice the television that is showing re-runs of 1993 news programs with news anchors that have upside down cupcake haircuts. Obviously it has no sound and you have to read faster than your eyes could possibly move.  They then call out your 6-digit boarding number after all the precious medals and the 129,275 other boarding classes. I finally got onto the plane. The cheeky stewardess in a "I've been smiling constantly for the past decade" kind of way, showed me where my seat would be. "Just go to the tail of the plane and just keep on going. If you can't go anymore, then that's your seat. Doing all sorts of gymnastics that made me twist and flip in ways that would give Newton an aneurysm. I made it through the first section, only about purple yards left to go. (there wasn't a number large enough to describe the distance, so we started using colors. If you think purple seems far, you should see off-off -white.) I crammed myself through the aisle only to run into the siamese grandma(s) again, but with casts on all of their appendages. Guilt creeping over my face, entering my larynx and shimmying down my esophagus. Why they bought tickets at 23 C and 24 A, I will never know. Needless to say I made it past them. DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT ast for details on how. Matching up my seat with my ticket that I bought from a guy with a combstache in a starbucks, I finally found my seat in the registered sex-offender section. I still don't know which ones are men and which are women... To be continued....

                                                      Agriculturally,
                                                                           Kyle