Airport nightmares yesterday. The old girl's still got a bit of a sprint in this clunky body. Did one of those terminal-to-terminal dashes, knocking over civilians with my bouncing backpack, flight crews pressing against the wall when they heard my approaching galloping. Spent the next four hours coughing chunks of atrophy that were caught in my throat. Finally settled on to the plane, JCrew performed a very dramatic bit of surgery, ripping a pair of trouser socks that had scab-pasted themselves to a blister on her toe.
This beats the alternative: Spending a night at an airport hotel in Detroit, which would make a great title of a very emo song.
I've glimpsed rock bottom, I thought at about 10 p.m. last night. Backpack as a pillow, restaurants closed, pants a little wet from spilling urine during the dash, reading a grim story in Rolling Stone that included pictures of a severed head and limbs. I never anticipated that this place would include such a monstrous craving for a cheeseburger.