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Hey kids! -Guess who’s flying cross country yet again tomorrow?

In case you haven’t noticed, I carry a lot of baggage when I fly, and I’m not talking about the corporeal stuff. Just can’t wait to get on the road again? —Ha! Not in my universe, Mr. Nelson. As a matter of fact, as soon as I set foot in an airport teeming with bodies, my inner hermit lifts his dowdy robes up to his ankles, shrieks, and does the Flinstone stationary run. Then he begs me in Latin (because he’s snotty that way) to buy a Spiderman sticker and a cheap volleyball from Target on the way home. Upon arrival, I’ll be ready to barricade myself in the guest bathroom. I plan to live a long and quasi-fulfilling life in there, chatting with my one and only friend, Spidey, whose face I have slapped onto said ball. Along with my ripping off Tom Hank’s whole deal in Cast Away, I also intend to remain faithful to comic book protocol. Thus, I will stupidly never realize the sticker on the ball is my dear friend and ambitious young news hound Peter Parker.

Why do I hate traveling so much? You may have read my previous post about “The Reclining” so I’ll leave that one alone. Trust me, there are plenty of other irksome things we can talk about here. Starting with a plethora of crying babies, the incontinent, and sick people. Oh, and 23-year-old vacuous, petulant trophy girlfriends with their duck lips, fake breasts and sometimes butt implants rounding out the back of their tight little sweatpants or dresses. Not to mention the Chatty Cathys who cozy up in an airplane seat beside you on a five hour flight to tell you their life’s story, despite the fact that you are wearing headphones. There should be a law stating those people are only allowed to talk to you in airport bars after you’ve coaxed a minimum of two drinks into your system.