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| No More Fear of Flying |
| by Alison Milonakis |
| Why is it the Mile High Club,
when in reality, you’re 36,000 feet high above land? Besides, ain’t no way two people can comfortably copulate in a tin box restroom designed for one. I crunch my complimentary blue potato chips, pray that my bare feet will once again feel the coolness of grass, attempt to go deeper into iPod oblivian- Pink Floyd’s color lazar light-induced world. The pink clouds and indigo sky could be beautiful, like glimpsing heaven, if I wasn’t so fucking terrified. Really brilliant to watch Final Destination followed by La Bamba two nights before an eight hour flight. My third anti-anxiety drink is kicking in, and I’m praying there’s no one in there dying to join Mile High, but first, another distraction. On my seat TV, a chubby man is traveling through Cambodia, sampling bizarre foods. He grimaces while biting into a balut.* "Not bad", he says. "It could have been worse." And I think, that poor little duckling never even had a chance to fly, or to see a swirling pink and indigo blue sky. *A balut is a fertilized duck egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and eaten in the shell. |
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| May 2007 |
| 87 |