I Just Want To Make You Laugh

I felt I should, out of respect and because I’m a teacher, mention something about the senseless tragedy last week.

It was and is horrific that these acts continue to plague our world.

But, because this blog is not the platform I would like to use to speak my mind on hot button issues, I’m not even going to go there with a political stance or a statement on what’s happening and why.

(But if you do want to lose friends over a difference of opinion or get in a fight with your childhood best friend’s mom, Facebook is open all day for your convenience.)

This blog space has and will always be a place for everyone, regardless of sex, gender, race, political affiliation, or stance on whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza (it does, in case you were wondering, but I totally still love you if you hate it).

Not only do we have enough of the ugly side of the real world all over our social media, we need some comic relief, even during the darkest of times.

It’s this reason I’m not sharing politically-fueled or potentially segregating posts here and why I’m going to continue spreading my humor.

This can be your place (if I so humbly declare) that you can come to to maybe get a chuckle or to not feel so alone because you realize now that you’re not the only one with overly hairy toes.

So, amidst the sadness and fear I feel for my students and my fellow teachers in the trenches, I feel a need to continue to smile, to find the good, to laugh.*

source

*This doesn’t mean you can’t also fight tooth and nail for what you believe in, because do that too ✊🏻.

WTF Am I Even Thinking?

It’s no secret I am currently conspiring to write a book. Well, not simply conspiring. I’ve actually got *most* of it written. It’s just a messed up hodgepodge with almost no direction or central idea/theme/vision, is all.

No biggie.

Excuse me while I go throw up.

Actually, excuse me while I go procrastinate by doing literally anything other than write for my book.

*sits on edge of bed, staring off into nothing for the better part of an hour*

I’m struggling to find a central theme for my ramblings.

Not only that, I’m struggling to write solely for the purpose of someday maybe publishing my words.

I love me the instant gratification that is blogging.

Don’t even lie and say you totally weren’t shaking your head in agreement. You were. I saw you.

I write a post and, almost instantly, I’m met with feedback that feeds my soul (and that ever-present need to be validated).

It’s a really great rewards system.

“Writing” a book is the direct opposite of this.

I *have* to write and then afterwards no one rings a bell or gives me a high five or anything. It’s really disheartening.

So, I’m struggling, ya’ll.

Further, I don’t know what posts to save for my book and which to go ahead and publish on my blog.

So, not only do I have no direction whatsoever in terms of my “book”, I have no blooming idea what I should blog about.

A good example of this conundrum would be an idea I have for a travel series in honor of my upcoming trip to Amsterdam, the U.K. and Ireland.

Many moons ago, I went to the U.K. and Ireland for the first time, and it was, single-handedly, the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. Not only was it epic to experience being in another country, having the time of my life, but also, so.many random and hilarious things happened while there.

Now that I’ve gotten serious (and by gotten serious, I mean I’ve saved some Word documents with some possible already-written blog posts) about actually maybe putting a book together, I don’t know if I should include my travel stories in my book or on my blog.

And then, there’s the crippling self-doubt.

There’s always that.

I don’t want to rush-procrastinate and ruin my only future memoir. It’s not like I have a whole other secret double life that I can write about if I totally bomb telling the first life.

Would anyone notice if I tried to write it again?

Really, WTF am I even thinking?

This is the epitome of first world problems in case anyone needed a good psychotic example for a college paper or whatever.

I’ve been anxiously awaiting the perfect time to use my favorite Andy from Parks & Rec meme. I think it fits. Every time I sit down to write, it’s like wiping a poop marker- “Still poop, still poop”.

A Christmas (Ghost) Story

Normally, Christmas isn’t a time for swapping ghost stories (unless you’re a stingy, cantankerous Scrooge who needs a visit from Christmas past), but this time of year always makes me think of my old Elko apartment.

If you know me personally, you likely know that I’m the highest form of wimp possible. If something has a slight bit of danger (I find leaving my cellphone charger plugged in without my cellphone one of the biggest dangers of the modern world) associated with it, I’ll opt out in a nanosecond.

Back when my parents first started leaving me home alone (I believe I was eleven), I would lock myself in the bathroom with our dog if I heard the heat kick on.

At the ripe old age of 34, I cannot sleep if my bedroom door isn’t locked at night. And, when the boyfriend comes in, I ask if he locked the door. Every.night. I ask this every night. He’s almost certainly is planning my murder.

So, obviously, I’m the best person to live in a house that’s haunted.

Can you see where this is going? Yeah, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

The apartment an ex boyfriend, we shall call him Carl, and I shared was on the “tree streets” in the heart of Elko. They’re called the “tree streets”, because they’re named after trees-oak, maple, etc. Our street was called Court. I’m no expert on trees, but I’m fairly certain that’s not a type of tree. Either way, I’m still 99% sure we lived in the coveted “tree streets” area.

It was a delightful part of town-full of gorgeous old homes, mature trees (obviously there were trees), and a serenely idyllic feel.

We had been on the apartment hunt for quite some time, as we were way past wearing out our welcome at his mother’s house (not to mention, we had graduated college, which was one of the conditions of living rent-free).

After a particularly exasperating day of turning up nothing that would suit us, home-wise, we happened upon a quaint white stone and green-trimmed row of apartment buildings. The way they were built, each duo were separated by a door that led into a shared storage and laundry room.

They were old. Like, built-in-the-20s-or-30s-old. But, they well cared for. They were also expertly updated to maintain the vintage charm and uniqueness they possessed.

This was after I’d added some of my own charm to the home.

When I peeked into the kitchen, through a window, and saw the awesome vintage metal cabinets, I had to live there. Later, I’d find the apartment held all sorts of vintage charm, like skeleton key locks and tiny, useless closets.

(It’s kind of ridiculous that I love vintage charm, but I’m terrified of vintage, lingering houseguests.)

When my ex found out he knew the landlord personally, we were a shoe-in and were new apartment dwellers by the end of the day.

The day we started moving in was a dark and gray November day. The living room walls were made up entirely of wood paneling, and the only reason I didn’t detest them intensely was because they were made of real wood and not the fake trailer home paneling one thinks of when they hear those feared words.

Wood paneling. The fucking horror.

Because the living room looked like it was straight out of an episode of Poirot, and the dark, low-lying clouds made for a very dark atmosphere, it was necessary to have lights on during the day.

This is where the story actually gets somewhat interesting (sorry for that incredibly long-winded preamble).

After many a box and armful of clothes, still on hangers (I’m a boss at packing for a move) were moved in, the ex and I decided to go take care of the power and cable.

I distinctly remember saying something like, “Let’s actually turn all of the lights off when we’re not in a room. We are paying the power bill now.” (We were total assholes.)

So, I know we turned all of the lights off. I know we did.

Yet, upon returning, the lights were mysteriously all on.

Because my paranoia was no secret, when I said, “Uh. Didn’t we turn all of the lights off before we left?”, the boyfriend responded by saying we’d discussed doing that, but we didn’t actually get around to turning them all off.

He was dead wrong.

But, even I knew that if he admitted to the fact we did turn the lights off, my ass would have had my cheap World Market Chinese paper lanterns hung back up at his mom’s house quicker than you can say, “Oh, hell no!”

This event, on the very day we moved in, set the tone for the rest of my time there. I think someone wasn’t thrilled with us moving in.

I was never comfortable in this apartment. The vibe was all wrong.

What made things even worse was Carl worked from 6:30 at night until 2:30 in the morning. Five nights a week I was alone.

After we had moved everything in and made it our own, I took pictures of our decor to share on Facebook. Every single picture had myriad orbs. I know orbs are vastly contested, but coupled with the feeling I had there, I know those sonsabitches were orbs.

One of the things that made me feel the most uncomfortable was doing the dishes. The living spaces were not open plan at all. In fact, the doorway from the front room into the living room had a door (as in one that you can close, not just a doorway-I thought I needed to clarify). At the sink, my back was to the rest of the house. I hated the fact that I had no view of the other rooms as I was doing the dishes. I constantly felt the need to glance behind me.

Other than an overall eerie feeling, not a whole lot happened to me.

I never saw anything, but I felt something. It was unmistakable.

The only other major occurrence that happened to me was on an evening before a holiday, so I was gladly staying up until Carl came home. I was watching TV (it was some TLC special on medical oddities and quite fascinating. I have no idea how I even remember this). Out of nowhere, I heard a terrific crash. It was horribly loud and made me jump right out of my skin. It sounded like it came from the laundry room.

Our laundry room was accessible by a door from the living room that led into the entryway and stairs for the upstairs apartment, so naturally I had every kind of lock installed on the door, because laundry monsters are very real.

Logically, I knew that with the door guarded like Fort Knox with its 18 different locks, whatever was in the laundry room was likely not getting in, yet I was frozen in fear.

I called Carl, and since you can get anywhere in Elko in five minutes, it was no time before he was bravely, albeit annoyingly searching the premises.

I forgot to mention that the landlord had a workshop that he used quite frequently that was accessible through the laundry room. There was no back entrance, so the only way in was the main door for the upstairs apartment. However, that door was always locked as our neighbor preferred to use his back entrance.

Carl searched all over the workshop and laundry room. Not a thing was broken, toppled over, or misplaced. When our neighbor, who was out of town during this strange occurrence, got home, we asked him if anything was amiss in his apartment.

Nothing.

I think the very notion that nothing appeared to make the terrible crash freaks me out even more. It’s also entirely possible that something did make the noise, but Carl hid it from me, because he knew how I’d react.

The creepiest thing to ever happen I didn’t find out about until I was long moved out of that apartment and back in Reno.

The winter we lived on Court street was a very cold and snowy one.

The pogonip was in full force. Our view from the apartment was pretty satisfying.

My wreath made it look not haunted at all.

I took the train to Reno to celebrate Christmas with my family. My mom, so I didn’t have to ride the train back with all of my gifts and in order to see the apartment, drove me home.

We had a fabulous girl night full of chick flicks, the best Blind Onion pizza on earth, and so much laughing. My mom insisted on sleeping in the living room on her deluxe, raised air mattress. That was one of the only nights I truly rested easy, knowing my mom was in the next room.

Well, at least one of us rested easy.

Early, in the dead of morning, my mom was awakened by the sensation of someone sitting on the end of her bed, as the motion when that happens on an air mattress is unmistakable. She figured it was Carl coming home and not realizing he was sitting on her air mattress and not the couch.

She got up to investigate and saw that Carl was in bed, snoring and farting away. He’d been home for some time, as it was hours past the time he normally arrived home.

It was then that my mom was dead certain someone or something visited her that early morning.

This post is in dedication to my astute mother who had the foresight to know her fragile daughter would not have had the mental fortitude to handle the news of a mystery guest (resident) sitting on beds in the creepiest part of the early morning. She also knew, if she shared her experience, she’d again have a daughter as a permanent area rug on her bedroom floor for the rest of her nights.

I made it six months in the apartment on Court Street. The reason I moved out is a scary story, indeed, but not one involving ghosts. I’ll have to save that story for another time.

Even as I write this now, I have the chills. I keep rolling over in bed, making sure I’m the only one in the room.

Feeling in the Christmas spirit now? Maybe after some spirits, of the liquid variety (not the paranormal) it’ll feel a little more like Christmas!

One of the last photos taken in the apartment. All of the orb pictures are gone from Facebook and have been banished to an external hard drive. Sorry to disappoint.

Toilet Talk 

When your week goes to poop, it’s only natural to #fbf to when it was worse. Here’s to having some really shitty luck. Literally. 

Nothing strikes more fear into my heart than rising water in a toilet bowl. Even realizing my alarm clock failed me, or discovering I’ve worn my black panties that say, “Only if You’re Lucky” on the ass, with my white skinny slacks, to school doesn’t hit me as hard and sudden as realizing poop water is about to run like Niagara Falls all over my linoleum. 

Am I right? Or, am I the only one who uses half a roll of toilet paper AND forgets to courtesy flush? Surely I’m not the only tool who has felt this cold fear. Surely. 

Let me tell you what is worse than an overflowing toilet onto linoleum: an overflowing toilet onto carpet. Before I move on, can I express my utter disgrace for whoever thought carpet in a bathroom was a good idea? IT’S A HORRIBLE IDEA. 

Years ago, I lived with my boyfriend’s mom. Not only was the bathroom adorned with 80’s-special red counter tops, and gold finishes everywhere, the entire floor was carpeted. It was terrifying. 

How can one confidently use a bathroom with carpet under their feet? Not only did my skin crawl wondering how many pee germs, courtesy of my boyfriend, and God-knows-what creepy crawlies were inhabiting the carpet circling the toilet, but the fear of overflowing the toilet was a very real, daily emotion. 

I’m known among my family and friends as the Toilet Paper Monster. I know, glamorous. Basically, I can easily use half a roll of toilet paper in one trip to the bathroom. My dad says every time, and I’m not shitting you, every time, I come over, “Better make a run to Costco, Katie’s here”. Not funny anymore, Dad. 

I see not one thing wrong with wanting an extra clean derrière. 

Not only was I known, in my childhood home, as one who possibly ate toilet paper-for what other explanation was there-I was a professional toilet overflowerer. All I had to do was yell, “Mom!”, in a panicked tone for her to come, immediately, running with the mop, a plunger, and bleach. 

Well, back to the 80’s bathroom nightmare. After an especially long crappy day (see what I did there?), I was running, pinched cheeks, to the bathroom (what a wonderful visual. I’m trying to make this as minimally unsavory as possible, but we are talking toilet paper and overflowing toilets here). 

After I had done my business and used my usual half-a-roll share, the time came to flush. I stopped. A hot sweat immediately dampened my skin. 

Had I flushed? Did I courtesy flush? 

I looked.

*shudders* 

Nope. 

What do I do? What do I do? 

I’m just going to have to flush and pray. 

OK. Here we go. 

Nope. I can’t do it. Maybe we can just forget about this toilet. It’s a loss. 

No. Flushing has to happen. It must be done. 

*Deep breath*

3, 2, 1, FLUSH

I think it’s going to go down. 

Momentary relief flows through my veins. That is, until…

That doesn’t sound right. Wait. No. 

No, no, please, Lord Jesus, no! 

I jump up-pants around ankles-and whip around to face the pain. 

DEAR GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY. 

Bile is rising, my stomach is clenched firmly in fear’s fist, and my mind is blank. 

I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I refuse to believe it. 

Nope, this is very real. What are you waiting for, asshole? 

I frantically lift the top to the tank. I pull the bobber-ma-jiggy, like my exasperated mom taught me. It does nothing. 

Racing against the clock, I get on my hands and knees, onto the ill-fated carpet, and reach for the water valve. 

It’s not going to stop. 

THAT is going to be all over the carpet. 

How will I tell Linda? 

How will I ever live this down? I will forever be The Girl Who Stained My Carpet With Her Poo Water. 

I almost faint. It’s all too much. It’s bare-assed, primal fear. I can only   imagine what the scene would look like if someone walked in. Anyone witness to the mess I was, would immediately be struck blind. *shudders*

With the water shut off, the offensive contents have finally ceased rising. Precisely a millimeter above the edge-the point of no return-it’s stopped. 

I’m stunned, relieved, physically and mentally exhausted, numb. 

With a sweat-lined lip, I mouth, “Thank you, baby Jesus. Thank you”. 

What do I do now? 

The water level wouldn’t allow a plunger, even a mere pube would reverse what my fervent prayers and sweating worked so hard to prevent. 

By the utter grace of God, the water starting draining, and a white bowl dotted with my disgrace started to show. 

I am the luckiest bitch on this planet. 

No one has ever heard my story. It was a very hard, embarrassing story to tell. Maybe my words can help save someone’s dignity, or at the very least, their flooring. 

Public service message of the day: FLUSH BEFORE YOU WIPE AND DON’T EXPECT AN ENTIRE ROLL OF TOILET PAPER TO FLUSH. 

It won’t. 


Porta-Poop Revisited

This past weekend, a good friend and I went to the Genoa Candy Dance. I had assumed that people would be dancing and throwing candy around. I mean, isn’t that what it sounds like it would be?? To my dismay, the Candy Dance was just a bunch of over-priced vendors and food trucks (apparently there is a dinner and dance event in the evening). The food truck part was, however, much appreciated. What I did really like about this event was that it was held in Nevada’s oldest town/settlement. For a history lover, it is a real damn shame that I had never been to Genoa before. I fully plan on visiting again sans tons of people pushing to get to a stall selling crocheted rabbits.

Continue reading “Porta-Poop Revisited”

Turned to Poo

I was trying really hard to pull an Eat, Pray, Love during my massage today. No, I did not try to sneak in a sandwich (maybe next time). I tried to meditate and think of nothing. I tried the mindful practice strategies that I’ve taught to my students. I tried to concentrate only on my breath and the sensations of the stress being kneaded out of my body. I tried. But, as with most things in my life, I failed. Epically. 

All I could do was think. 

This past month has felt like a fucking nightmare. Parts of the nightmare I can get into, others I can’t and won’t divulge.

Obviously, if you’ve been following my blog, or you know me personally, you know I left my boyfriend. I will never publically bash the man I gave five years of my life to, but I will say that I had thought I had already grieved the end of our relationship. Before I ever even got out of it. Well, I hadn’t grieved. Not even fucking close. Finally cutting the cord was harder than I thought it would be. In fact, to date, it was/is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. 

I’ve never been the one to dump. I’ve always been the dumpee or the jackass who gets cheated on. I’ve always been the one beating the dead horse, holding on for dear life to something that had been long dead. 
When I decided to decline the job offer in England, I knew that despite my not jetting off to change my life abroad, I would still need to make massive changes at home. You don’t always have to pull an Under the Tuscan Sun or EPL to change your life for the better. 

Well, “for the better” has not appeared yet. In fact, almost daily I wish I can go back in time to when my life was a familiar pile of poo, because this new poo smells terrible. 

Yeah, I know, time heals all wounds. And all of that garbage. 

The most eye-opening thing I’ve realized lately, I thought of during my massage today. 

Every single good thing that has happened this past year has turned to utter shit. 

For ease of reading, I’ll just make a stinking pile of shit list:

1. The “writing” gig for Bliss Babe was a joke. 

2. I epically failed my first Master’s class and am in the appeal process still. 

3. While my decision to not go to England was based on logic and lack of cash money, it still sucks to think I could be drinking tea and eating crumpets right now (actually, I’d be asleep, because it’s 5 in the morning there as I write this). 

4. Even though it was inevitable, the relationship I gave my all and five years of my best years to failed. 

So, all of this to say, this is why I’ve been MIA on the blogging front. 

Oh, I forgot one more:

5. After not blogging for a month, I’ve likely lost most of my followers. 

YAY. 

The Apartment

OH BOY, GUYS. I thought I was good, but I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be to move into a new apartment without the guy I spent almost five years with. Alone. Just me. 

The night before last I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and a late night trip to Home Depot was necessary. I almost starting crying in the pipe fittings isle. I felt alone, scared, and stressed. 

I feel better off and on. One moment I’m excited for my new makeup table that used to be my entry table, and the next I’m feeling horribly heartbroken that I won’t be tripping over his behemoth shoes anymore (this is craziness, as who would miss this…).

Yesterday, my aunt, mom and good friend  (plus her hubby) helped me move my new bed and couch into my apartment. The presence of loved ones in my new place helped immensely with making it feel more like home. It also helps as I put more and more of my things inside. 

It’ll get better. It just takes time. Time is a bitch, though.

Here is a video I took the night I got my keys. I’ll video again when everything is in place. 

But Don’t Do That

Guys, I’m freaking out. Today, when I was at the factory outlet mall, I needed to use the restroom. Generally, I tend to avoid public restrooms like the plague, because, well, they are filled with foul smells and people with leprosy. I’m not even kidding. Just ugh. Even Starbucks bathrooms are questionable these days. There’s just nothing quite like your own bathroom, your own germs, and your own smells. 

There’s something more. It isn’t just that every single time, I shit-you-not, every.single.time I walk into a public restroom someone just unloaded their barrio burrito from hell, it’s that I have a fear of vomitting. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, knowing it’s happening. Just no. 

I’m the kind of teacher who, when one of my students throws up, looks like they are about to throw up, or comes out of the bathroom a sickly shade of green, I’m out the door, down the street, gone. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I’m the friend who will leave your drunk ass in the bar bathroom if you’re puking. I don’t even care. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I always tell the bartender to hail you a cab. So, it’s OK. 

I’m also this girlfriend. Yup. 

I had my boyfriend help me recreate one of my favorite memes. Even getting this close is questionable. To add to the effect, he made pretend gagging sounds and all that fun stuff. Great work, babe. 

So, back to the bathroom nightmare today. There was a woman in the bathroom making extremely questionable noises. I’m always hypersensitive to the noises that go on in the stalls next to me. So much as a cough, and my heart starts beating faster and I break out into a sweat. When I hear anything other than tinkle tinkle, I freak the fuck out. 

Forcing myself to accept the very real fact that a foot away from me someone was upchucking was unthinkable. Thus, I decided to make up what she was doing instead. So, the woman in.the.very.next.stall was either:

A. Dropping bowling balls into the toilet, which would account for the impressive splashing sounds

B: Plunging the toilet, exuberantly, which would account for the heaving breathing

C: Having a watermelon seed spitting contest, which would account for the spitting

I practically flew out of that bathroom. The damn bathroom at the mall is at the end of this winding, endless hallway. The whole way, I ran, breathless, sweating, shaking. 

It felt like I was never going to see the light of day again. Finally, finally, I saw the light, exited, found Bath & Body Works and tried to forget about my worst nightmare come true. 

Travel Movements

Am I the only one who stresses about the bathroom situation at airports and in *gasp* airplanes

Is it just me who plans, or tries to plan “movements” so as to avoid the flying germ coffin in the sky? 

I positively detest using the airplane bathroom. I don’t think detest is a strong enough word. Loath? Does that emphasize my hate and horror enough? I think I’ll go with ‘detest’, it sounds more full of disgust. 

What I despise about the bathroom is that it’s more like an entryway coat closet, in a home for small people, than a restroom. 

It’s absolutely not a restroom, anyway. There is no resting once in its claustrophobic grip. Just to get your pants down, you practically have to molest all four walls, with every part of your body.

I’m the kind of person who prefers to have no part of my body touch any part of a bathroom. It’s a challenge. It’s an art form. I hover, I flush with my foot, I will kick the door down to get out. Anything to touch nothing. 

Why are the bathrooms so fucking small? I mean, really? I could easily give up the snack station for a larger bathroom. Who needs shitty peanuts and the worst watered-down soda when you could use a bathroom that you don’t have to have sex with to use? I’m for a larger bathroom, hands down. 

Right along with my fear of public bathrooms, be it a horrifying porta poop or a nasty shit box in the sky, I fear pooping in public. Period. I want to get in and out as fast as humanly possible. Diddle doddling around waiting for the deed to be done, is far, far too dangerous in a bathroom where someone else, a stranger, is also doing the deed right next to me. No thanks. 

I can’t relax enough to poop when someone could possibly hear the dreaded ‘splash’. Nope. No way. I’m already feeling the anxiety coming on. 

Call me a freak. Call me high maintenance. Call me what you will, but I can’t poop comfortably unless I have my In Touch, my Costco toilet paper, my room spray, and my personally cleaned toilet. 

You can say vacations are a bitch in regards to the bathroom situation. 

Nervous Poos

3 more sleeps and I will be heading to visit my sister from another mama. This will be the first time I’ve traveled further than one state over since my trip to London in 2010! To say I’m nervous about the flight is like saying, “I’m just a little in love with baked goods.” 

I adore travel. I want to see the world, yet flying is so, so fucking scary. I am a control freak to the nth degree. If I could sit in the cockpit, I would feel a little better. I would feel a little more at ease if I could be on the lookout for birds or other planes, or whatever else there is to watch out for in the sky. I would feel more in charge, and thus safer, if I could say, “A little to the left”, “Whoa, let’s ease up on that throttle”, and “Are you sure you checked the landing gear?” 

I would be that person they want to tie up and store in the cargo hold. 

This time around, I’ll be traveling with just me, myself, and Ivana (she’s my alter ego). I’ve never flown alone. I’ve always had someone to annoy with my constant questions and worries, “Are you really sure we aren’t going to die?”

I feel like a super, take the Bulls by the horn, independent woman. That is, until the morning of my flight. I’ll most likely be having to use the restroom every 10 minutes, and I’ll question whether or not to take my “huggy pillow” with me on the flight-to keep me safe, obviously. 

I’m not a real chatty person when it comes to talking to strangers. When some random person says something like, “The weather has been crazy lately”, my response is usually something along the lines of, “I don’t like hot dogs”. And then I want to kick myself for not saying something easy, like, “Hasn’t it?”

So, I’m dreading the inevitable flight talk. 

Basically, I’m dreading the flight, in its entirety. 

Someone reassure me *sucking thumb in fetal position*