sks. All the plump little characters seemed to be having such a good time—giant grins on their faces. Perhaps they were crashing into a sea of gold and treasure, and that’s why they were so happy.

Maybe 20 minutes into the flight to Panama City he came down the aisle with the rolling beverage cart. I wanted no trouble and simply requested a full can of cranberry juice—being that I usually finish those plastic ergonomic cups in a gulp or two. Of course, this was not possible. “We’re not allowed to give full cans, I’ll give you a cup” he said. He handed me the cup of juice and I chugged it about two seconds. He gave me this look of disgust as if to say, how could you possibly do such a thing. I asked for a second cup, even though I didn’t really need it. I was making a point.

I slept the remainder of the flight and woke up just in time for the descent—my favorite portion. I put my tray table away and I returned my seat to

For the most part, I have tried only to write blogs about interesting topics. I have intentionally (and I think, for the most part, successfully) written about meaningful things like traveling around Panama and culinary feats I’ve found to be impressive. I’ve tried not to write, what we've now termed as 'the cheese sandwich blog': the boring account that emanates from long periods of time holed up in ones own apartment or jail cell, and that inevitably includes phrases like “today I ate a cheese sandwich.” For one, I don’t eat cheese because I am allergic to it. And two, I just don’t think cheese is all that interesting.

This blog, however, is an exception to my rule. Having accidentally scheduled myself a lengthy layover in Atlanta I was left with a lot of time on my hands. I'd have to write about my flight to Panama City. I’d eventually wash the time off my hands in the airport seeing-eye bathroom, so not to ruin my keyboard.

Airports are funny to me. They’re these giant cesspools of boredom. People with bad attitudes waiting for hours and hours. The terminal is just an intermediary—a place where you have to be before you go onto the real shitty part of your trip. The flight.

I took my seat proudly in the window seat of the exit row, as if to say to all my fellow passengers 'What?! I am better than you and you know it.' I would get to stretch my legs out and they wouldn’t. I felt really special, as if I had outwitted all the other travelers on the flight. Almost as if I ruled over them.

The steward walked down the aisle from the front of the plane in this feminine frolic. He stopped at my row and asked if I spoke English. “The door weighs 31 pounds you know” he snarled. “Are you capable of assisting us should we need to exit the plane?” What was that supposed to mean?

Was he insinuating that I did not look old enough to execute the escape? Or perhaps that I didn’t look strong enough to lift the door? I was pretty sure that I could bench press more than him, if not his string bean body itself. I was sort of offended by the question so when he went into the seatbelt and oxygen mask routine, I pretended like I was sleeping. The only people who actually watch those are first-time fliers and mimes anyway. He finished the motions and went into a little hideaway area between the cabin and the pilot pit.

I enjoyed my seat in the lap of Delta coach luxury. I stretched my legs out as far as possible (not that it was comfortable flexing my legs like that—in fact it was quite tiring and demanding). I did it more just to say I could do it. I raised the little arm rest bar in between my seat and the next since I was the only person in the row. I felt like I was in airplane heaven: this must be what first-class is like, I thought to myself.

The steward emerged from his lair, this time with an evil grin on his face. His weird exaggerated features and whiney voice reminded me of a skinny little elf from middle earth. I was still thinking about that disparaging comment he had made earlier and gave him some evil eye of my own. Into my lap, and into the lap of the two women in the exit row across from me, the steward goblin tossed a special “Exit Row Practice” booklet—about 6 pages long. What was with this guy? Was he trying to tell us something? Was he going to take the plane down, forcing us to exercise these regulations? My exit row neighbors and I chuckled, having never been patronized this much on an airplane.

The booklet itself appeared to be the sort of thing you get your first day in flight school. With some technical jargon like “pressure latch” and “access flap” whatever those meant. For me, the layman, there were pictures of little cartoon characters performing the different tasks. All the plump little characters seemed to be having such a good time—giant grins on their faces. Perhaps they were crashing into a sea of gold and treasure, and that’s why they were so happy.

Maybe 20 minutes into the flight to Panama City he came down the aisle with the rolling beverage cart. I wanted no trouble and simply requested a full can of cranberry juice—being that I usually finish those plastic ergonomic cups in a gulp or two. Of course, this was not possible. “We’re not allowed to give full cans, I’ll give you a cup” he said. He handed me the cup of juice and I chugged it about two seconds. He gave me this look of disgust as if to say, how could you possibly do such a thing. I asked for a second cup, even though I didn’t really need it. I was making a point.

I slept the remainder of the flight and woke up just in time for the descent—my favorite portion. I put my tray table away and I returned my seat to a

.

Airports are funny to me. They’re these giant cesspools of boredom. People with bad attitudes waiting for hours and hours. The terminal is just an intermediary—a place where you have to be before you go onto the real shitty part of your trip. The flight.

I took my seat proudly in the window seat of the exit row, as if to say to all my fellow passengers 'What?! I am better than you and you know it.' I would get to stretch my legs out and they wouldn’t. I felt really special, as if I had outwitted all the other travelers on the flight. Almost as if I ruled over them.

The steward walked down the aisle from the front of the plane in this feminine frolic. He stopped at my row and asked if I spoke English. “The door weighs 31 pounds you know” he snarled. “Are you capable of assisting us should we need to exit the plane?” What was that supposed to mean?

Was he insinuating that I did not look old enough to execute the escape? Or perhaps that I didn’t look strong enough to lift the door? I was pretty sure that I could bench press more than him, if not his string bean body itself. I was sort of offended by the question so when he went into the seatbelt and oxygen mask routine, I pretended like I was sleeping. The only people who actually watch those are first-time fliers and mimes anyway. He finished the motions and went into a little hideaway area between the cabin and the pilot pit.

I enjoyed my seat in the lap of Delta coach luxury. I stretched my legs out as far as possible (not that it was comfortable flexing my legs like that—in fact it was quite tiring and demanding). I did it more just to say I could do it. I raised the little arm rest bar in between my seat and the next since I was the only person in the row. I felt like I was in airplane heaven: this must be what first-class is like, I thought to myself.

The steward emerged from his lair, this time with an evil grin on his face. His weird exaggerated features and whiney voice reminded me of a skinny little elf from middle earth. I was still thinking about that disparaging comment he had made earlier and gave him some evil eye of my own. Into my lap, and into the lap of the two women in the exit row across from me, the steward goblin tossed a special “Exit Row Practice” booklet—about 6 pages long. What was with this guy? Was he trying to tell us something? Was he going to take the plane down, forcing us to exercise these regulations? My exit row neighbors and I chuckled, having never been patronized this much on an airplane.

The booklet itself appeared to be the sort of thing you get your first day in flight school. With some technical jargon like “pressure latch” and “access flap” whatever those meant. For me, the layman, there were pictures of little cartoon characters performing the different tasks. All the plump little characters seemed to be having such a good time—giant grins on their faces. Perhaps they were crashing into a sea of gold and treasure, and that’s why they were so happy.

Maybe 20 minutes into the flight to Panama City he came down the aisle with the rolling beverage cart. I wanted no trouble and simply requested a full can of cranberry juice—being that I usually finish those plastic ergonomic cups in a gulp or two. Of course, this was not possible. “We’re not allowed to give full cans, I’ll give you a cup” he said. He handed me the cup of juice and I chugged it about two seconds. He gave me this look of disgust as if to say, how could you possibly do such a thing. I asked for a second cup, even though I didn’t really need it. I was making a point.

I slept the remainder of the flight and woke up just in time for the descent—my favorite portion. I put my tray table away and I returned my seat to

he escape? Or perhaps that I didn’t look strong enough to lift the door? I was pretty sure that I could bench press more than him, if not his string bean body itself. I was sort of offended by the question so when he went into the seatbelt and oxygen mask routine, I pretended like I was sleeping. The only people who actually watch those are first-time fliers and mimes anyway. He finished the motions and went into a little hideaway area between the cabin and the pilot pit.

I enjoyed my seat in the lap of Delta coach luxury. I stretched my legs out as far as possible (not that it was comfortable flexing my legs like that—in fact it was quite tiring and demanding). I did it more just to say I could do it. I raised the little arm rest bar in between my seat and the next since I was the only person in the row. I felt like I was in airplane heaven: this must be what first-class is like, I thought to myself.

The steward emerged from his lair, this time with an evil grin on his face. His weird exaggerated features and whiney voice reminded me of a skinny little elf from middle earth. I was still thinking about that disparaging comment he had made earlier and gave him some evil eye of my own. Into my lap, and into the lap of the two women in the exit row across from me, the steward goblin tossed a special “Exit Row Practice” booklet—about 6 pages long. What was with this guy? Was he trying to tell us something? Was he going to take the plane down, forcing us to exercise these regulations? My exit row neighbors and I chuckled, having never been patronized this much on an airplane.

The booklet itself appeared to be the sort of thing you get your first day in flight school. With some technical jargon like “pressure latch” and “access flap” whatever those meant. For me, the layman, there were pictures of little cartoon characters performing the different tasks. All the plump little characters seemed to be having such a good time—giant grins on their faces. Perhaps they were crashing into a sea of gold and treasure, and that’s why they were so happy.

Maybe 20 minutes into the flight to Panama City he came down the aisle with the rolling beverage cart. I wanted no trouble and simply requested a full can of cranberry juice—being that I usually finish those plastic ergonomic cups in a gulp or two. Of course, this was not possible. “We’re not allowed to give full cans, I’ll give you a cup” he said. He handed me the cup of juice and I chugged it about two seconds. He gave me this look of disgust as if to say, how could you possibly do such a thing. I asked for a second cup, even though I didn’t really need it. I was making a point.

I slept the remainder of the flight and woke up just in time for the descent—my favorite portion. I put my tray table away and I returned my seat to

from his lair, this time with an evil grin on his face. His weird exaggerated features and whiney voice reminded me of a skinny little elf from middle earth. I was still thinking about that disparaging comment he had made earlier and gave him some evil eye of my own. Into my lap, and into the lap of the two women in the exit row across from me, the steward goblin tossed a special “Exit Row Practice” booklet—about 6 pages long. What was with this guy? Was he trying to tell us something? Was he going to take the plane down, forcing us to exercise these regulations? My exit row neighbors and I chuckled, having never been patronized this much on an airplane.

The booklet itself appeared to be the sort of thing you get your first day in flight school. With some technical jargon like “pressure latch” and “access flap” whatever those meant. For me, the layman, there were pictures of little cartoon characters performing the different tasks. All the plump little characters seemed to be having such a good time—giant grins on their faces. Perhaps they were crashing into a sea of gold and treasure, and that’s why they were so happy.

Maybe 20 minutes into the flight to Panama City he came down the aisle with the rolling beverage cart. I wanted no trouble and simply requested a full can of cranberry juice—being that I usually finish those plastic ergonomic cups in a gulp or two. Of course, this was not possible. “We’re not allowed to give full cans, I’ll give you a cup” he said. He handed me the cup of juice and I chugged it about two seconds. He gave me this look of disgust as if to say, how could you possibly do such a thing. I asked for a second cup, even though I didn’t really need it. I was making a point.

I slept the remainder of the flight and woke up just in time for the descent—my favorite portion. I put my tray table away and I returned my seat to

sks. All the plump little characters seemed to be having such a good time—giant grins on their faces. Perhaps they were crashing into a sea of gold and treasure, and that’s why they were so happy.

Maybe 20 minutes into the flight to Panama City he came down the aisle with the rolling beverage cart. I wanted no trouble and simply requested a full can of cranberry juice—being that I usually finish those plastic ergonomic cups in a gulp or two. Of course, this was not possible. “We’re not allowed to give full cans, I’ll give you a cup” he said. He handed me the cup of juice and I chugged it about two seconds. He gave me this look of disgust as if to say, how could you possibly do such a thing. I asked for a second cup, even though I didn’t really need it. I was making a point.

I slept the remainder of the flight and woke up just in time for the descent—my favorite portion. I put my tray table away and I returned my seat to an upright position before the steward Nazi could get to my aisle. I thought about taking my gum wrappers and empty juice boxes out of the seatback in front of me, but decided against it. Payback’s a bitch.