mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I'm back, once again, in Picayune, Mississippi Well, I finally made it home. Why is it that airplanes travel at like one million miles an hour, and my car travels, one a good day, 70 miles an hour. Yet, no matter which mode of transportation I take, it still takes me 12 hours to get home. I just. Don't. Get it. Oh, and "Welcome to Northwest Airlines. If our representatives don't treat you like utter shit, you get your money back! Guaranteed!" Needless to say, I didn't get my money back. But then again, I would probably be just as bitchy if I was in the airline industry these days. I couldn't imagine all of the rules and regulations they have to keep in mind all of the time. And with each new memo -- which probably comes two or three times a day -- is reassurance that their jobs will get even more difficult. Yep. I would hate to work for the airlines right now. They probably don't get paid enough to kiss my ass. Also... Why is it when I get the total losers sitting by me, all I can do is complain and wish for the supermodel to sit next to me. And then, when I get my lucky break and one does come sit next to me, all I can do is say, "So, New Orleans, eh?" "Yep," she says, head nodding. "...," I say with a blank look. "...," She says, looking for security. Give me an ugly girl, I will talk all day. Give me the girl of my dreams, and I close up like-- Wait. I think I wrote this once before. I can't remember. All I know is that I have been up for 23 hours, and I feel like my brain is fried. So, I am just writing to reassure you that 1) My pilots were not drunk, and 2) My pilots were not Russian. In other words, yes, I am still alive. Safe at home. I will write tomorrow when I feel more in touch with reality. 3:02 a.m. - Wed., July 3, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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