ē Memoirs of an Evil Genius ē
Conquering the World, One Martini at a Time

ē Theory of Flight ē
2:23 p.m., 2006-07-21

Another Friday is here, folks, and that can only mean one thing: itís time for me to stop dragging my feet, open up a Word document, and start a journal entry. Itís not that I donít LIKE updating, yíall, seriously. Itís just that whenever Iíve got enough spare time to write, it means that Iíve got SPARE TIME. Thatís like saying, ďHereís fifty bucks to go buy underwear.Ē I mean, yes, maybe I need underwear Ė and yes, underwear can be sexy and make you feel good Ė but fifty bucks is fifty bucks! I might need to spend the fifty bucks writing emails to my mom, or cleaning my room for the first time in about six months (give or take), and have to backburner my updating dreams. I got my metaphors mixed, here, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, Iíve got fifty metaphorical bucks now, and Iím spending them all on you! I expect play.

So Iíve been working this week, which was a happy surprise that came out of nowhere. Itís a very brief assignment, but it has led to an additional (possible) opportunity, for which Iím crossing my fingers. Especially since Stupid Unemployment never sent me anything for the two weeks I was out of work last time, and I now have to call them AGAIN and be on hold AGAIN and bitch them out AGAIN, and I hate that. I hate when I have to snap at people just to get them to listen to me. It doesnít seem right, you know? I like to be friendly, because it makes everything so much more pleasant. But when you try to be friendly, people ignore you or take advantage of your good nature because they figure they can. So you have to be an asshole, and everyone hates you, but at least you get the job done. I really, really loathe that business construct.

However, I am very grateful that I am alive to engage in it! You see, I may have thought my motherís driving was scary, but when I made that casual reference to my in-flight piety on cross-country trips, I didnít realize how prophetic it would prove. Iíve always had an abiding fear of heights Ė and plummeting to a leisurely-yet-fiery death FROM said heights, while strapped to a chair inside a metal cylinder weighing several hundred tons Ė but over the years Iíve managed to bring that primal phobia under control. When I boarded my first of two flights home on Sunday, I just tried to push the reality of the situation into the back of my mind Ė like usual Ė where I could ignore it and just let it bubble up and manifest itself in some future night terror.

Our take-off wasÖbumpy. Our flight? Was like the opening episode of Lost, except without the pretty beach. It was like riding a tornado sidesaddle through a collapsing star. I have been in earthquakes more stable than the sixty minutes we spent in the air, and I was pretty sure that if I could bring myself to peep out the window, I would probably see the face of God. And He would probably have been looking at us, like, ďWhoa, dude Ė Iím glad Iím not on that flight.Ē You know you sometimes hit those pockets where the atmospheric pressure shifts, or whatever, and the plane kind of drops a bit? And your heart shoots up into your throat like when youíre rocketing down a hill on a roller-coaster, and itís kind of exhilarating, but when itís over youíre still like, ďOh, thank God thatís overĒ? We hit about seventy-five of them in rapid succession and I swear our cabin practically lost the power of gravity.

I made so many promises to Jesus in that sixty minutes that I lost track. I donít think I renounced any certain lifestyles, which was Ulrichís worry, but still. And while Iím on the subject, I love that my instinct was to grab onto the armrests of my seat, as if that was going to help me in the event that we dropped thirty-THOUSAND feet to the earth, at approximately twelve million miles an hour. And also, who the FUCK was the girl next to me, that she was asking the flight attendant to POUR HER A GLASS OF ORANGE JUICE and then pass it to her OVER MY LAP while the plane was having a grand mal seizure in its merry, earthward plunge to certain death? Fuck YOU, lady.

Thank God itís over.

Your Trivia Fact For The Week: Anne Bradstreet was the first published American female author. Iím Watching: Project Runway. I love that show, unabashedly. Iím Reading: Iím now reading a book on art theory, and itís fascinating.

A Year Ago, I Said:

she trailed behind her a spreading cloud of drama -- like one of those skywriting airplanes, only one that spells out ĎDRAMAí, and then clips the top of a radio tower, bringing down communications for area for a good fortnight, during which time everyone starts accusing each other of being aliens and then eat each other to survive

A Death Ray of Sunshine

© 2005 by Dr. No, all rights reserved; you break it, you buy it.

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