Shoving Off

My plane for France leaves tonight at 6:30. My nerves are starting to kick in- I absolutely abhor transatlantic flights. I blame this on the movie Castaway. Though I only saw it once, it was enough to leave me terrified of crossing any substantial body of water by air. My neurotic brain can not help but indulge in epic doomsday scenarios. I imagine the plane nose-diving from great heights into the ocean for reasons unknown. Pieces of the plane rip off during the descent, taking people with them. The stewardesses scream. The pilot weeps. I wonder what my last thoughts will be. I wonder what my body will look like, should they ever find it. They probably won't. My remains will rot on the ocean floor, like the Titanic people.

I've flown overseas three times now; on each previous occasion, I wrote out a will and left it on my bed, should my morbid predications actually come to pass. I think I'll forsake that ritual this time, though Eugene can have all my dishes and books if I don't make it over the ocean alive. I'm sure he'll like that.

Boats leave me equally mortified.

Oh and aren't these pants awesome?