Flammable

There is something terribly addicting about checking flights and hotels. I don't really know why, but I always enjoy dreaming about going to different destinations and planning trips with detail after detail after detail. When it comes to taking the actual trip I always enjoy it. The huffing and puffing when checking in, the sighing in the queue to the security check, the prodding at the security check. (Don't tell the guard that as far as you know you didn't have any knives on you this morning, for some reason they don't appreciate that.) I enjoy watching people pass by as I'm sitting in the lounge waiting for my flight to come in and I like to fly in a can packed like a sardin. Although I have a habit of wanting to discuss things like "if we should crash now I will feel satisfied with my life" and "isn't it a wonder that something made of metall, such as this plane, can stay in the air?" while being in the air. Hrm, maybe this is why Mr. English doesn't like to fly. Maybe I don't help his fear when I discuss the magics of aerodynamics...? I should probably smuggle some sleeping pills into his drink if we go somewhere by flight. Or... I could use a sledgehammer. It's easier to get one than coming over some horse tranquilizer.