Travel Makes Me Cry
My adventures in the sky
Travel is hard
I guess I’m kind of a homebody.
I like my place in the world. My house. My family.
Great Flying Tube
Me and a bunch of my new friends are strapped into this contraption.
The pilot has no face.
The attendants are too large for these aisles. Their butts rub my shoulder every time they pass by.
I try not to think about what I am doing.
Bad coffee is included.
Often it’s warm and somebody near you has brought a sandwich with strong onions.
You don’t get your own space unless you pay extra.
Otherwise, you are treated like cattle.
You are herded.
Think happy thoughts
I try to not be too negative.
If I can think of something that takes my mind off the present situation, I can relax a little.
Apparently it’s required. There’s got to be at least one.
And it’s got to be teething or gassy or hungry.
And it has to be near me. Because.
It’s not productive.
It doesn’t change anything.
It doesn’t make me less cramped. It doesn’t make the baby shut up.
It’s not useful. So why does it come to me?
Like a friend?
A bad flight is a good time to get philosophical. To ponder your existence.
To think about whether any of this is worthy of your efforts anymore.
“The unexamined life is not worth living.”