THE SEVEN LEVELS OF AIRPORT HELL
LEVEL THE FIRST: Taxi never shows up to take us to the airport. Leave 15 minutes late.
LEVEL THE SECOND: Metal detector goes off (it was my belt.)
LEVEL THE THIRD: Get all my liquids and/or gels confiscated by cunty security guard (No one TOLD me, okay? No need to talk to me like I'm a fucking retard. Even if I kind of am one.)
LEVEL THE FOURTH: Flight has been moved to a concourse all the way on the other side of the ficking terminal.
LEVEL THE FIFTH: DELAYED FOR OVER AN HOUR GODDAMNIT.
LEVEL THE SIXTH: On the plane at last, delayed for another forty five minutes. Finally take off after nine, which was when we were supposed to arrive. On the plus side, have now completely forgotten grief over the loss of hair care products.
***INTERLUDE: Idaho basically counts as it's own level of hell.***
LEVEL THE SEVENTH: Four days later, flying back by myself. I turn my cell on as soon as we hit the ground and it rings about a minute later. It's my mom, who's supposed to pick me up, to tell me...the car broke down. Again.
I have to take a taxi. Circle of life.