Recycled Air

Airplanes are about as sterile as a bottom at an Eastern European orgy. Listening to people cough up small babies, burp, and attempt the occasional fart does the opposite of make me comfortable in this small, enclosed space that we'll share for countless hours. Most of the time, I'd rather make out with a stranger infected with mono. Mono happens to be one hell of a diet. However, the idea of hitting the stratosphere in a metal contraption is pretty cool isn't it? If I'm not too busy falling asleep, praying against my death, or gently grazing the body of the possibly hot person next to me, I ponder the wonder of cracking through the sound barrier and essentially traveling back in time (when traveling from Korea to California). I wish it was as glorious as it sounds, but it isn't. Losing a day on the way back is as equally annoying as the recycled air in the cabin, but I digress. And funk what ya mama told you, airplane food is bomb. You get a roll AND dessert. That's bread times two. It's about time to go now, and soon my beloved and I will be landing in San Dieger. My family will meet us at the airport and either, a) cry b) be overly affectionate or c) ask us if we're hungry. I think we all know the answer to that question. Let the feeding frenzy begin.