-Everything is calculated in miles when you travel for business – the length of your flights, the distance from the airport to the hotel, and the size of the frequent flier bonus you get for stopping in Atlanta for no fucking reason. What’s not measured is the wear and tear that jet setting inevitably exacts on your soul. One can only take so much. As I’ve crisscrossed the country over the past few weeks on tour (yes, I realize calling that “business” travel is a stretch), I feel I’ve reached the limit of how many indignities one person can suffer. If frustration, helplessness, and discomfort could be measured in miles, I’d be a platinum member greeted by name and given hand jobs in the Admirals Club.
-Nowhere in the airport is there more silent tension than between the anxious people waiting around to board, and those smug fucks who have just landed. No one likes you; keep walking, assholes.
-It boggles my mind that more vagrants don’t just steal luggage from the baggage claim. There’s no security down there and hundreds of free life-starter kits are just circling around, ripe for the taking. It’s a hobo’s wet dream.
-Whenever I’m traveling somewhere random, I’m astonished that there are actually other people on the flight. Nashville to Minneapolis on a Wednesday? Who else could possibly need to take this route but me?
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