Insomnomaniacal-- not a word, but it should be
So, yeah. I wrote a bit while in the airport, but I just remembered/found these entries. Here they be.
#1, as follows:
Well, damn. I’ve traveled more by plane this year alone then ever before in my nineteen years. I don’t feel like counting on my fingers and toes, but I am sure that I’ve had a fair number of flights. I’ve gotten over most of my former misgivings in viewing air travel as an assault on my own mortality, but I can’t honestly proclaim that flying still doesn’t bug the shit out of me. No matter how much planning goes into getting me to the damned airports, I am, more often than not, two hours ahead of my scheduled departure times. Call me impatient, but I can’t seem to simmer down and relax or read or listen to music. I pace the terminals, I agitate and pluck up my vanity in the bathroom mirrors, I buy overpriced airport food-usually making a mess in the process. Today, for instance, I bought a disgustingly sweet yogurt-and-granola deal from au bon pain. Problem was, I couldn’t figure out how to separate the main lid of the cup from the bubble lid preserving the fake granola from a bog-like suffocation in the dairy product below. I foolishly squeezed the plastics that were vexing me, and the standard lid popped off (as a wiser person would have expected it to do…), speckling me with yogurt. I ignored it. I can’t imagine what conclusions people were drawing, seeing me with white blobs drying to the curve of my neck and the sleeves of my shirt. Perhaps it’s a sign of maturity (or perhaps I am trying to decorate my slovenly nature and wear it as a badge of an adulthood which I do not yet possess) that I don’t really give a shit if the general public observe me in a disheveled state. Can’t say that much for the ole’ college environment, yet, but I am working on it. Baby steps.
Anyway… there hasn’t been a very intelligent progression in this entry yet, and I can’t really foster the desire to make amends with Lady Logic. Erin’s mom drove me to Anderson/Woburn, and I caught the express shuttle to Logan. Once again, two hours early… Upon entry into the check-in area, the young woman gave me some lovely little proof that I have played pawn to material gain this summer: my suitcase was substantially overweight. Now, I’ve never ever been a light packer. My suitcase has, on multiple occasions, been branded with the horridly stigmatic “heavy bag!” tag, but this is the first time that I’ve been censured for being a pack rat. To my immense relief, the young woman jokingly and kindly said that she would let it slide. “Today has been so slow, and… I just plain feel like it!” she announced with a grin. Saved me from $35 fine. Thanks, kind lady.
Well… went through the metal detectors and tin can alarms and the like without incident (that is the one area where I’ve never had a problem… knock on IBM…), purchased yogurt, created lactic hurricane, eventually cleaned myself off in the bathroom after finishing the parfait, and sat my ass down in the waiting area, still half an hour away from boarding time, which is half an hour away from take-off! Ay. I hadn’t been seated for longer than five minutes when the frazzled, PQ middle-aged blonde behind the desk said over the intercom that air traffic control had fucked shit up and that my flight would not be arriving until 7:45. (Well, she wasn’t profane, but I choose to remember it in such a fashion. Memory also has her wearing a tool belt and brandishing a plunger.) (The pretty young woman sitting next to me in the waiting area keeps laughing at nothing. I wonder if she is reading what I am writing. Cheers if you are, miss.) So, today, I can proudly say that I showed up three hours and 45 minutes ahead of time. Hot shit. Hot shit.
# 2, incomplete:
Traffic control, you motherfuckers, you’ve got me rocking back and forth in madness.
Well, not so much in madness as in a rocking chair. Some fugly guy stole my seat in the waiting area when I went to get dinner, so I once again took up my post as self-appointed wandering wraith in the corridors of Logan airport. I might as well live here. Anyway, between gate B5 and B12, there is a breezeway of sorts with a wall of windows looking out over the tarmac and the Boston cityscape. It’s interesting, perspective… Boston looks positively miniscule from here. Not in terms of scale, but simply with regard to physical stretch. I know it’s a relatively small city, and New England tends to make everything a bit more compact than the sprawling South, but it’s an impressively compact skyline. Well… along with the wall of windows, this corridor, almost laughably, is adorned with potted heliotrope trees and populated by white rocking chairs. Literally.
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Don't know if I'll finish the second. Plenty of other shizzit to write about, namely Erin and Caitie's birthday, my time home thus far, and my wisdom teeth extraction. Awesome.
#1, as follows:
Well, damn. I’ve traveled more by plane this year alone then ever before in my nineteen years. I don’t feel like counting on my fingers and toes, but I am sure that I’ve had a fair number of flights. I’ve gotten over most of my former misgivings in viewing air travel as an assault on my own mortality, but I can’t honestly proclaim that flying still doesn’t bug the shit out of me. No matter how much planning goes into getting me to the damned airports, I am, more often than not, two hours ahead of my scheduled departure times. Call me impatient, but I can’t seem to simmer down and relax or read or listen to music. I pace the terminals, I agitate and pluck up my vanity in the bathroom mirrors, I buy overpriced airport food-usually making a mess in the process. Today, for instance, I bought a disgustingly sweet yogurt-and-granola deal from au bon pain. Problem was, I couldn’t figure out how to separate the main lid of the cup from the bubble lid preserving the fake granola from a bog-like suffocation in the dairy product below. I foolishly squeezed the plastics that were vexing me, and the standard lid popped off (as a wiser person would have expected it to do…), speckling me with yogurt. I ignored it. I can’t imagine what conclusions people were drawing, seeing me with white blobs drying to the curve of my neck and the sleeves of my shirt. Perhaps it’s a sign of maturity (or perhaps I am trying to decorate my slovenly nature and wear it as a badge of an adulthood which I do not yet possess) that I don’t really give a shit if the general public observe me in a disheveled state. Can’t say that much for the ole’ college environment, yet, but I am working on it. Baby steps.
Anyway… there hasn’t been a very intelligent progression in this entry yet, and I can’t really foster the desire to make amends with Lady Logic. Erin’s mom drove me to Anderson/Woburn, and I caught the express shuttle to Logan. Once again, two hours early… Upon entry into the check-in area, the young woman gave me some lovely little proof that I have played pawn to material gain this summer: my suitcase was substantially overweight. Now, I’ve never ever been a light packer. My suitcase has, on multiple occasions, been branded with the horridly stigmatic “heavy bag!” tag, but this is the first time that I’ve been censured for being a pack rat. To my immense relief, the young woman jokingly and kindly said that she would let it slide. “Today has been so slow, and… I just plain feel like it!” she announced with a grin. Saved me from $35 fine. Thanks, kind lady.
Well… went through the metal detectors and tin can alarms and the like without incident (that is the one area where I’ve never had a problem… knock on IBM…), purchased yogurt, created lactic hurricane, eventually cleaned myself off in the bathroom after finishing the parfait, and sat my ass down in the waiting area, still half an hour away from boarding time, which is half an hour away from take-off! Ay. I hadn’t been seated for longer than five minutes when the frazzled, PQ middle-aged blonde behind the desk said over the intercom that air traffic control had fucked shit up and that my flight would not be arriving until 7:45. (Well, she wasn’t profane, but I choose to remember it in such a fashion. Memory also has her wearing a tool belt and brandishing a plunger.) (The pretty young woman sitting next to me in the waiting area keeps laughing at nothing. I wonder if she is reading what I am writing. Cheers if you are, miss.) So, today, I can proudly say that I showed up three hours and 45 minutes ahead of time. Hot shit. Hot shit.
# 2, incomplete:
Traffic control, you motherfuckers, you’ve got me rocking back and forth in madness.
Well, not so much in madness as in a rocking chair. Some fugly guy stole my seat in the waiting area when I went to get dinner, so I once again took up my post as self-appointed wandering wraith in the corridors of Logan airport. I might as well live here. Anyway, between gate B5 and B12, there is a breezeway of sorts with a wall of windows looking out over the tarmac and the Boston cityscape. It’s interesting, perspective… Boston looks positively miniscule from here. Not in terms of scale, but simply with regard to physical stretch. I know it’s a relatively small city, and New England tends to make everything a bit more compact than the sprawling South, but it’s an impressively compact skyline. Well… along with the wall of windows, this corridor, almost laughably, is adorned with potted heliotrope trees and populated by white rocking chairs. Literally.
--------------------------------------------------------
Don't know if I'll finish the second. Plenty of other shizzit to write about, namely Erin and Caitie's birthday, my time home thus far, and my wisdom teeth extraction. Awesome.