trying to use my seat cushion as a floatation device



this shit is fucked up, man.

	i don’t know who we think we are,

wibbly-weeble-wobbling into clouds while

		little ant cars skidaddle along below,

assuming we can just		up and conquer the air and

land in a different time zone.

		either this pilot is a poorly trained terrorist or

			the atmosphere is completely against us.



i swear i’m gonna puke soon but the boy is

	sticking in my mind like that 		sour-bitter morning flavor that

sometimes refuses to leave your mouth even after	you’ve

		brushed your teeth.   		stewardess, can i get 

some mental mouthwash so i can gargle him into oblivion?



the captain says beware, 	we’re

	encountering lumpy air,	please

restrict your movement around the cabin.   	yes, i am definitely

	going to lose my trail mix and orange juice soon, ‘scuse me but now i’m 

having trouble breathing here.	regardless, stupid thoughts persist.



i wish flaky people literally turned to powder and crumbled

	so you’d know what they were like beforehand.

at the very least they should come with

neon flashing signs, so that every time one said,

“hey babe, i’ll call ya soon,” 		obnoxious orange lights warned:

          

not a chance!  this guy is full of shit!



we’ve ascended now into the ether above turbulence, things 

are starting to stabilize and you’d figure that would help my

topsy-turvy stomach.  instead, i 

		obsess further over similes-

the boy is cleaving to my mind like gum in a little girl’s hair like

	a scab that isn’t healed and oozes when you tug it like

		oil-based makeup when you’ve got no facewash and you’re

stuck, just fucking screwed, walking around like yesterday’s clown.



flying is an enigma to me and i just don’t think

	this plane is gonna make it.  i thought the boy was one of those cliches,

you know a “mystery wrapped around a riddle,”	but really he’s 

just a fucking turkey wrapped around some bacon, and someone ought to

		club him over his sandwich brain.

this flight is doomed for sure.