there is no part of me that understands any part of Air Canada. as a company they seem either all too streamlined or entirely too disconnected in levels of operation, what each employee is attempting to represent. It's an uncomfortable individualization that mimics, on a microcosmic scale, the operations of this entire country. Flying with them makes me uneasy, displaced, disjointed, and (either) more, or less, like myself. it's like voting Liberal (you fucking useless pansy). i mean, hey: did you grow up middle class? because, if you did, i would have been very uncomfortable having dinner at your house while growing up. i would have spent the whole time trying to pick up a scent. your mother would have been the last person i would ever trust. all middle class mothers have short hair. my mission, in life is death to the middle class mother, the one demographic that does more harm to this society than any other. they act by being acted upon--the absolute worst type of mystification, carrying on. in terms of the roles they COULD play, they keep fucking up, fiddling around subversion, logic, understanding and joy with political correctness, intimately chatting, "confiding" with you about your bra size, how important, GROUNDBREAKING, EARTHSHATTERING your first period is--MUST BE, and it's not charming, it's not Desperate fucking Housewives. How can it be so entertaining? they tell you to hold your head up high and it ruins you: IT RUINS YOUR THIRD EYE. They have no concept or understanding of the life they chose--no one who drives you to soccer practice in a car that bubble square ugly, who suggests you wear something sequined, shiny, and pastel to prom night, and who pays that much at a salon for highlights that look that awful on her has any concept of the kind of life she chose and what that means, on a basic level of a joyful, fully functioning, Duende based society. what I'm trying to say is: I've gained some perspective, of the district, the slits between my toes. My lips have never been so chapped. They're so stained with blood and what appears to be nicotine brown that it looks like I'm wearing a classy, mauve lipstick. it's made me break out the hairspray again. now you tell me why I don't sleep anymore. not only at night, but ever. It could be because the only person I really trust is myself. my father would have let me sleep an extra hour; he wouldn't say it was good for me, but that he couldn't bare to wake me. a middle-aged British gentleman brought me my luggage. I then dipped my apple slices into hot sauce, thyme honey, and the company line.