I realized where it all went wrong.
In the past 5 months since I started my new job and started travelling the country one thing has always remained the same. I'm usually flying out of Gate C, close to the end of the walk. There's a Starbucks there and since they don't let you take the $1 bottle of water you bought at a grocery store, you're stuck buying the $4 bottles from the airport vendors. Instead, I'll always get a grande peppermint hot chocolate extra hot. On my recent flight, I stood in line with the rest of the nimrods addicted to the shit starbucks doles out, only to discover they were out of peppermint. Hot chocolate, to me, without peppermint just isn't the same. So I left without hot chocolate in hand. And there went all my luck with it. Another reason to hate Starbucks.
On the flight back last night I was scared, and that troubled me. I'm not afraid of flying. Haven't ever been. Afraid of heights, yes, afraid of falling from said heights, yes, afraid of flying, no.
But this time, from the moment the plane was at 37,000 feet I got scared. All I saw were miles and miles of mountains and snow and frozen tundra and my mind saw us crashing into them. I was holding onto my seat because I felt like I was going to fall off the plane with every single bump. I felt completely ridiculous so I forced myself to take a nap.
I have a new obsession. On top of the Oilers, which is permanent. I started reading books by Dennis Lehane, the author of the books made into the movies, Gone Baby Gone and Mystic River. He puts things in a context I agree with.
For example, this spew about sex, from his book, Prayers For Rain:
Brilliant! I've always laughed when people said stuff like "make love". How can you "make" love? You either have love or you don't. You can't "make" it. It's just lipstick and rouge to cover up the fact they like getting laid.
In the past 5 months since I started my new job and started travelling the country one thing has always remained the same. I'm usually flying out of Gate C, close to the end of the walk. There's a Starbucks there and since they don't let you take the $1 bottle of water you bought at a grocery store, you're stuck buying the $4 bottles from the airport vendors. Instead, I'll always get a grande peppermint hot chocolate extra hot. On my recent flight, I stood in line with the rest of the nimrods addicted to the shit starbucks doles out, only to discover they were out of peppermint. Hot chocolate, to me, without peppermint just isn't the same. So I left without hot chocolate in hand. And there went all my luck with it. Another reason to hate Starbucks.
On the flight back last night I was scared, and that troubled me. I'm not afraid of flying. Haven't ever been. Afraid of heights, yes, afraid of falling from said heights, yes, afraid of flying, no.
But this time, from the moment the plane was at 37,000 feet I got scared. All I saw were miles and miles of mountains and snow and frozen tundra and my mind saw us crashing into them. I was holding onto my seat because I felt like I was going to fall off the plane with every single bump. I felt completely ridiculous so I forced myself to take a nap.
I have a new obsession. On top of the Oilers, which is permanent. I started reading books by Dennis Lehane, the author of the books made into the movies, Gone Baby Gone and Mystic River. He puts things in a context I agree with.
For example, this spew about sex, from his book, Prayers For Rain:
"Christ, Pat -- whatever the fuck your name is -- isn't that what sex is about? Oblivion. And don't give me this PC rhetoric about spiritual commingling and making love. Sex is about fucking. Sex is about regressing to our most animalistic state. Caveman. Private. Pre-Ur. We slurp and scratch and bite and groan like animals. All the drus and marital aids and whips and chains and variances we add to the stew are all just extras meant to heighten -- no, accomplish -- the same thing. Oblivion. A regressive state that transports us back centuries and de-evolves us. It's fucking, Pat. It's oblivion."
Brilliant! I've always laughed when people said stuff like "make love". How can you "make" love? You either have love or you don't. You can't "make" it. It's just lipstick and rouge to cover up the fact they like getting laid.
Labels: Go Oilers Go, I love Ryan Smyth
About me
- Grace
- British Columbia, Canada
- jealous, insecure,narcissistic, paranoid, and delusional
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