I Hope This Helps

While there’s a certain kind of strangeness in a place that’s constantly filled with people where no one actually lives, I've never had a problem with airports. Until I meet Mr. Shot&Bud. I was flying to Atlanta, and since I got there early, I wasn’t running around like a crazy person. Naturally, I took a seat at a bar after making it through airport security without incident. I ordered a Yuengling and a caprese salad. Mr. Shot&Bud, of course, orders a Bud Light and a shot of Jack Daniels. Okay sure. My salad arrives and as I glance over as this guy looks at the salad, looks at me, and sneers like I’m wearing a painted on Chiquita Banana Lady costume at a Gay Pride Parade. You know this type. This is the guy who needs to judge everyone. He will decide certain things about people based on tiny fragments of information, and use that information to make himself feel better. In this case, I assume the thought process is something along the line of “It’s okay if I’m drinking too

Earlier this morning, I was contemplating health. I was contemplating healing. When my mother had a brain tumor, someone who spent more time in college than she did suggested she fantasize about some sort of healing scenario. This manifested, so she told me, as teddy bears slowly mining away at the cancerous tissues. It probably didn't do anything medically, but it brought her comfort. I wonder about my mother sometimes. Once she told me a heart monitor she was hooked up to stopped beeping and started saying, to her, "help me, help me, help me, help me, help me." Hearing her tell me about this was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I was sternly warned about lying and flights of fancy as a child, mostly by my mother, so to hear her recount something like this, it was the burning hot truth of the thing. Mom was quite religious, she was certain of the power of the man called Christ. As sure as putting your foot on the gas would make the car go faster, Jesus