I have been quiet for a while on account of being relaxed to an almost criminal degree in Ireland with my BFF. Well, most, of the trip was remarkably relaxing, save for the flight there and back. I have developed an irrational fear of being trapped in a giant steel contraption that weighs far too much to make its propulsion into the air seem possible.
Now, I'll grant you the flight from England to Ireland is only about forty minutes long. But I spent every minute of that time with my fingers digging into the armrests so tightly that my nails turned blue from lack of circulation. I actually asked the flight attendant near me to repeat the part of the safety instructions about the inflatable part. I actually shushed the chattering idiots sitting along the row from me. I mean, let's put to one side for a moment that I was pretty sure we were all going to crash and end up on a magical Island powered by magic that turns out to be-- Wait, has everyone here seen the conclusion of Lost? I'll leave it out, just in case.
ANYWAY! I was pretty sure I was going to spend the next six years dodging polar bears and finding hatches occupied by Desmond (mmm, Desmond) and cavorting on the beach with Sawyer (mmm,Sawyer.)
Wait, what's wrong with flying again? I should go next week!
I mean really, it's not actually the flying part of travelling by plane that terrifies me. It's the other thing. It's the flaming ball of twisted steel and tortured metal falling from the sky while I'm pressed up against a window with the oxygen mask on my head like a hat because I COULDN'T HEAR THE SAFETY INSTRUCTIONS, THANK YOU SO MUCH, OVER-PROCESSED HAIR LADY SITTING IN FRONT OF ME.
Normal hyperbole and snark will resume once I'm over my near-death experience.