adventures from nyc to lax


leg one: being a chosen one, a burly snorer, and life at 31,000 feet minus marlo

LGA to CLT, one hour ten minutes

you'd think that I would find it fiercely intimidating to be one of the Chosen Ones. but I don't.

I was born for this role.

apparently, Sweet Divinity Above decided that I am well equipped with qualities to be a hero, and in order to be said hero and fulfill My destiny, I shall be placed in an exit row. it's a big job, being a potential life-saving hero and all, but someone must do it. so I will. gladly. technically speaking, there are three other chosen ones but we all know that I will be the leader of the Chosen Ones.

I'd expect special treatment, at the very least. for a hero, I'd actually expect far, far more. but what do I get for being the next TIME magazine cover star? I get seated next to a large-boned man who had already staked claim over the shared armrest between us before I even boarded. usually, I'd take a battle for an armrest very seriously because I am very territorial over personal space, particularly when dealing with My arms; They're lanky and need extra room. doesn't he know that I'm the Alpha Hero here? but he dozed off too quickly and caught Me off guard. and would you believe the luck of your lovely Heroine? he's a snorer. a loud one. I find Myself hoping that nature will call upon him for use of the communal potty so that I may slither in and stake My claim over the armrest, which is very obviously and rightfully Mine. this Hero doesn't share armrests. why doesn't he know this?

this is also the first time that I've traveled on a plane without My pint-sized sidekick since My littlest travel companion was created. and truth be told, I found it quite boring. no twenty-five pounds of pudge jumping on My lap to get over the seat back to flirt with whoever is behind us. no over-tired toddler screaming at the top of her strong lungs. and what I miss the most has to be- by far- the death stares from the other passengers, because those really are the best. they just make you feel so warm and fuzzy inside.

when We hit charlotte soil for a layover, I de-boarded and skipped over to chili's to have an over-priced airport bloody mary. over-priced bloody mary's are a mandatory thing in order to enjoy the full airport experience. they also leave you nice and dehydrated so you don't have to pee as often, which is just annoying.

My very lovely sister-in-law, shikery, is joining Me for the last leg. she isn't one of the Chosen Ones, but someone was looking out because she's only two rows back so I can save her first. if only mr. snorer hadn't taken the fucking armrest, maybe he'd win rank over my s-i-l... probably not because there was also the snoring to consider. he got pushed to the back of the line. Chosen One, he is no longer.

(keep reading for leg two... don't worry, I'm still staring as the lovely Chosen Heroine.)

leg two: i'm somewhere over kansas seated next to a man who farts

CLT to LAX, seventeen thousand four hundred and two hours

I remain a Chosen One. I guess I did a adequate enough job with the first leg of My adventure that the responsibility has been bestowed upon Me once again. if only everyone else knew how lucky they are that I'm here to save them.

I have a different seat mate. I really want My sister-in-law to sit with Me because she laughs at all of My jokes. and also, maybe she'll let Me rest My head on her shoulder if I fall asleep and We can cuddle. so, I very politely ask the man sitting in the seat if he wouldn't mind moving to another aisle seat two rows back so that I may sit with Shikery. (what he is unaware of is that I don't exactly need to ask; I am a Chosen One. I'm just doing the socially proper thing by making him believe that he has a choice.) he informs Me that he can't sit in one of THOSE seats (which are just like the seat that he is currently sitting in, mind you) because "he's too big for them." "umm, okay. thank you anyway." insert me burning him intensely with my Chosen One death glare. it should be noted that he is maybe 5'10" on a good day, and at the very most, his legs are as long as mine. which aren't long. I debate declaring my Chosen One status just so that he is able to comprehend how wrong his answer to my question was.

but I don't. I stay quiet and make a sad wave to my s-i-l. who am I supposed to cuddle with? who is supposed to carry the weight of My head as it gets sleepy? not the undeserving one beside me.

if you know ME, you know that I rarely back down, nor do I give anyone the last word; it's a gift from God, truly. you man ask joe if you have any doubt. and since my luck was so poor on the first leg, you would think that I would get supremely rewarded for allowing it to just be for the first time since, I don't know, EVER.

but, no.

what do I get for being a hero? AGAIN? an open-mouth breather who constantly lets silent-but-deadly poots seep out of his ass. I do not find this seat-mate suitable for someone who is could possibly be on the cover of magazines.

this man also doesn't speak very great english, something that I don't believe the TSA would approve of since he's in an exit row and may have to assist me when I save everyone on the plane. on the flip-side, this means that he and I won't have to have to converse. I decide that I am okay with this. no unnecessary suffering from Chatty Cathy Syndrome.

oh! but wait!

I found a Chatty Cathy! and a few of them! I have learned that the man about six rows back, who is speaking as if everyone in the world needs to hear his life story, has climbed seventeen- "give or take"- mountains around the world. whoopdy fucking doo, dude. hello, I am the Chosen One. your mountain climbing has nothing on that. there's also a woman behind me whose parents financially cut her off because she decided to go to dental school instead of following in the foot-steps of her spinal surgeon father. such a disappointment she must be. marlo, take notes.

I'm starting to appreciate the farter. at least he doesn't open his mouth. except to breathe. maybe he has halitosis and not ass-seeping disease.

and remember during the first leg, when I said that the flight was boring without My little traveling pro, marlo, present? well, lucky Me, folks! there's a nine month old who thinks that he is marlo! lung wailing and all. even his mom's boob isn't cutting it. and I think she even tried both of them. My boob was always My saving grace. he must just hate the world. it doesn't bother Me one bit, honestly. quite the opposite, actually. I feel as though I am at home. I miss Marlo.

I think that I am currently somewhere over kansas. I'm not really sure.

didn't you know that Chosen One's don't keep track of time? they have people who do that for them.



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