things thought on the airplane to italy: a random collective.

version 1:

we?re all gonna die. jesus, los angeles is fucking polluted.

version 2:

jesus, who thought up these seats? that crazy indian dancing kid? i wonder if your entire body cramps up at once if the release of it is slightly orgasmic. if i have to sit like this for the next twelve hours it better be or i?m going to oscar meyer weiner somebody.

the lady in the seat next to us is popping pills.

nerves, she says.

hook me up, i say.

megan stares at me.

taking off is always so exciting. that momentary allotment your brain gives itself to burn into the back of your eyeballs the jerky image of the plane burning in a pile of rubble at the end of the runway. this is why i abhor not flying first class ? no pre-take off beverages. the roar, the idle pressure as you are pressed back into your seat, your cheeks pulled slightly and eroticly away from your teeth. smile, we?re flying.

why are we going this way, megan asks me.

because driving would require drowning.

you?re dumb, she says.

i am superman.

version 3:

i wonder what state this is? we?ve been flying for three hours. the monitor on the back of the seat in front of me informs me we?re flying 585 mph. megan is snoring next to me, her lovely little face resting on my shoulder. sometimes this makes me wish i was fatter. bony joints make not a comfortable pillow. anyway, my arm is tingly. pins and needles. sharks and otters. strawberries and bananas, this shit is... there are too many questions?

i really hope megan wakes up soon. i?m afraid my arm is dying. plus, i want to make out at 600 mph. bobby burgess style.

version 4:

dear future self possibly recreating these hand-written inkturds to be ogled by the wunderkind of the intrawebs:

this is an exchange i had in my head with megan while she was snoring and drooling on my armpit. i.e., this is a conversation i made up while megan was sleeping.

myself, being awesome: so, megan, this is a conversation i made up in my head while you were sleeping.

megan: oh. i see.

myself: cat fights should always end up in swimming pools.

megan: probably. it would keep things in perspective. and no, you cannot film me and my cousin wrestling in a swimming pool to test your theory.

myself: drat.

myself: remember that time around christmas when we were up at the budnick?s and you went to tickle me, and i kneed you in the face?

megan: no.

myself: figures. i think you were unconcious. anyway, the way we?re crammed in these chairs and you?re laying on my arm and you look so content sleeping that i?m afraid to move for fear of waking you ? i can?t feel my penis.

megan: figures. karma is my sweet sweet bitch.

myself: i envy you. you and your snoring prowess and sleeping abilities. me? i suck at sleep. it?s my greatest failing. and i?m trying. i?m really trying. i?m yawning. i?m closing my eyes and relaxing and i just suck at it. it isn?t fair. i count sheep and i tell myself to sleep. i loop it in my head. sheep. sleep. sheep sheep. sleep sleep. sheep sleep. i repeat it over and over in my head in a soothing lilting tone. also, minor side-note: i can feel your breast pressing against my arm. rar. anyway, i try! i?m trying! this conversation with you could almost be said to be sleeping. maybe i?ll loop it. a soothing lilting sheep counting conversation between me, awake, and you, asleep. but then the ideas come. they hit like a grocery cart running into your genitals. fast and furious. ideas and plans. world domination. what to wear. what not to wear. things to do. things i?d like to do. things i?m doing right now. it is almost as if my brain sees the rest of me shutting down and decides, sweet! me time. it?s not fair, sucking at something like this. it?s like being bad at breathing. or pooping. or molecular biology. but you, miss megan, you dominate. it?s almost mythical.

megan: like a beast.

myself: any particular beast?

megan: a sleeping one.

myself: oooh. impressive.