School starts on Wednesday :)

The smell of McDonalds is overwhelming. The woman in 7D shifts in her seat and complains loudly. Her legs are the size of my waist. Her husband, well over three hundred pounds, ignores her. His t-shirt reads "No Guts, No Glory" and has a picture of an orange animal on it. He is reading Sports Illustrated. I wonder what they look like when they procreate. Someone is kicking my chair.

The children three rows back seem to have trouble focusing. One of them has a gameboy. He is screaming. The "parents" ignore both of them.

I can't ignore any of it; I certainly couldn't ignore the twelve year old who had to turn sideways to fit down the aisle as he walked past, or the four senior citizens who decided it was very important that everyone sit in their proper assigned seat, nevermind the fact that there are at least eight empty seats on the plane.

This plane has twenty-two rows with four seats in each row. About half are stuffed with overweight, overbearing middle aged americans; the few black and brown passengers get strange looks. I get more than looks; I've lost count of how many times these people have asked if "that hurt". I wonder for a moment if they refer to my having to view their tiny heads on top of their big snowmen bodies, and I fantasize briefly about biting them on the ear and asking if _that_ hurts. I restrain myself; of course they mean the large holes in my ear. The ultra militant security guard who decided that my keychain was a huge risk to national security was no doubt attracted by my earlobes; good job nancy drew, you saved the day!

What world do we live in where breakfast is "blood mary mix and four or five bags of pretzels, and what do you mean there's no meal being served on this flight"? These people aren't alive. They certainly have a hard time breathing, and judging by the noises and procedure needed to pry themselves out of the seats on the multiple trips to the bathroom, several of them won't be joining us on the return trip. Read the inflight magazine; learn about expensive resorts where you can get a massage while you drink your four dollar beer. Comment on the legroom and the chair made of fake blue leather, eat your stupid bag of pretzels and ask for more. Just get the fuck out of my way, and for god sakes, stop looking at my ears.