By Parson Thru
38,000ft over Biscay.
Bouncing around the sky like we’re all going to die soon and I’m chuckling, embarrassingly, at HST’s “Fear and Loathing”.
The tears that ran down my cheeks as we took off are drying at the corners of my eyes and I’m mildly contemplating how there are worse deaths than the one preoccupying a few people here in the cabin right now. Not so long ago I would have been one of them.
With the most popular forms of death – old age and cancer – there’s an unpleasant early stage, where one gives up any semblance of dignity (the benchmark for humanity).
I’ve yet to hear from someone who died in the tumbling fuselage of a passenger jet, if I’m being strictly objective, but I’m guessing dignity rarely becomes an issue. Who knows?
All I know is page 47 is so fucking funny that I have to break the bibliophile taboo and fold the corner down.
It just goes to show that, no matter how fucked-up life may get, you could do worse than bring a decent book along