jessicka

Back from Ft Lauderdale. No more flying, please. Why isn't there a security-free terrorist-friendly airline, with no fucking lines? I hate the crowds of smug businessguys, gawking tourists, obnoxious screaming children with fluid pouring from every orifice.

(I know I'm always bitching in these journals, but would you disbelieve me if I said I was actually a relatively sanguine person?)

Random snapshots of my current neural shitstorm, moving up and down the east coast in cramped airtran coach discomfort:

I crave recreation and release. I need to find a place to live. I want to get my hair cut (just an inch and a half, please). I need to finish this magazine; it's so late that by the time it's finished, it will be time for the next one (and it's a quarterly).

Slogan for an as-yet-undetermined business: "We put the 'disco' back into discomfort!"

Following the shitstorm simile, thoughts like the above are like puzzled cows stuck in trees; displaced by weather patterns configured by a preteen godling with a beavis and butthead laugh.

Huh-huh-huh...