In Writing

I have been prolific on this flight.  I’ve written an essay that was due today, I’ve read a book about mortality (note to you: don’t read it on a plane) and written a post about it and finished a spreadsheet for work.  I’m still wired, so I’m loading up on posts for the week since I think I won’t get to write much once my meeting gets underway.

(If you’re wondering how I’m posting on my blog from the plane, I’m not.  I’m writing on my laptop, then cheating on the publication time and date when I post it on the blog.  A sneaky business, this blogging.  I rarely write my pieces at the actual time they’re posted.  I can manipulate their publication time.  Now you know).

Anyway, in no particular order, musings from 30,000:

How can so many people sleep on planes?  Don’t they understand they have no control over their lives?  That is not what I’d call a soporific thought.  I don’t react well to lack of control so I exert the one bit of power I do have… to stay awake to “watch” things in case I need to go boil some water and take care of business.  I also can’t sleep in cars but then that’s rarely a problem because I’m ALWAYS the one driving on long road trips.

Thank god these kids are sleeping.  When my row filled with preschoolers I thought shizz was about to get real.  But clearly there has been plenty o’ Benadryl in some sippy cups.  Thanks for drugging your kids on my account, parents.

I wish I could steal that guy’s newspaper.  Yes, I could ask him for it but stealing it just sounds like more of an adventure.

I wish I wasn’t such an old lady and could bring myself to carry my tablet or my Kindle instead of just paper books.  I’ve already burned through 50% of the reading material I brought for the whole week.

Curse you, plane, for not having internet or a charger.

But, no, not curse you, plane, because I’d really like you to stay airborne, so bless you.

Oh, wait, my curses and blessings have no effect whatsoever on this machine.  I hate that.  Curse you, indifferent universe.

Man, my butt feels really flat.  And stretching in the aisle makes me look like a lunatic so I can’t do it again.

All my work done, I probably have no excuse to not work on my book.  But I’m still somehow not working on my book.  What’s that about?

Okay, that’s it.

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