Today, I discovered the avocado.
The avocado, I have established, is a delicious capsule of other-wordly-goodness. The disturbing… yet titillating… yellow-green be-mushed innards of this fantastical thing both horrify me — and captivate me all in the same… irreversibly faklempt moment of MUST. EAT. THIS. desire.
I have officially consumed twelve avocados in the past three hours.
I do not regret this decision.
My sudden predilection to be overwhelmed by the avocado… this… thing… this FRUIT-object that resembles an ALIEN POD, spawned by some kind of Saturn-inspired gremlin and yet TASTES like Zephelogeretes himself crafted it out of a warped, oversized pea and sheer Walt Disney-inspired-Fantasia-pegasus magic…
My!
I love the avocado. I love it for all of its imperfections, its strange — dimply skin that would be grotesque if homogenized to the face of an adolescent — but on the avocado it’s… wonderfully, disagreeably perfect, an absurd husk of occasionally peeled bewilderment.
Possibility of Non-Homelessness Arises – That, or Become a Slave on Craiglist (Literally)
Being theoretically homeless absolutely sucks. In the past month of being in (albeit) lovely vacation rentals, staying with family in CT, and the bouncing around Manhattan with meeting-after-meeting… I think I’m either going to force myself into consensual Guinnuss-inspired alcoholism, or just take something sight-unseen in Los Angeles in about 48 hours.
Physically, I also look like I’ve been fermenting in a vat of skim milk for a good month. My someone-slept-with-a-Cherokee-at-some-point, hereditary “olive/tan” thing has vacated my skin. I moved to LA to escape the winter. What am I doing BACK in it?!
However… I may have just found something perfect. A gorgeous (or so it sounds via Craigslist description) penthouse in Marina Del Ray. Overlooking the harbor. Has a gym (I can finally have an activity to temper the OCD… running on a treadmill!). Really affordable price.
Damn needing to move the weekend you have to pay a #*!@-load of money to a bunch of dudes in India. However, my next (and biggest) webdesign project is just about done… which, if I promote the thing right, should let me finally get rid of the perpetually blowing up Saab in a month or so.
It’s either that, or taking this classy, obviously business-minded Ivy-grad up on her offer.
… joke, by the way.
God, I love Craiglist.
__________
$1250 BBW GODDESS looking for Live IN slave for Room Immediately (Marina del rey)
I am a BBW DOMINA and need a live in slave for my 2 bedroom apartment on the West Side. The place is very nice, has pool, jucuzzi, fitness center and has alot to offer. I want a TRUE SUBMISSIVE who will serve me and put me first in every way. I want someone who will cover at least their portion of the rent which is 1250 and you will have your own room and bahthroom or if you prefer you can live in the Little Den Area Like a little Doggie. LOL
I have very strong energy and I need someone who will offer me positive energy and is one hundred percent Aligned with me so i am going to be picky and have interviews for this. The apartment is very nice and has laundry machine and dryer and has a nice view from balcony.
If seriously interested let me know why you want this type of situation. I would expect you to do my cook, clean, serve me, do my nails and basically do everything to make me happy including taking as many of the expenses as you are able.
I have very strong energy and the slave that gets to live with me will truly apprecaite the experience. I am spiritual by the way so if you are spiritual slave please contact me as that is what I am looking for. I AM A TRUE SPIRITUAL GODDESSS and want the most perfect slave to join me here.
BY the way I do dominate other men on phone and in person so if you were living with me you would have to be accepting of that and very out of the way when I needed you to be which means you can be in the house but not interfere with my session work. This position is not for everyone but if you feel inclined send me a message if you are serious about this and I will get back to you. YOU MUST TRULY LOVE AND WORSHIP GODDESS ENERGY FOR THIS TO WORK AND BE TOTALLY DEVOTED TO ME MIND BODY SOUL AND SPIRIT. ID YOU FEEL YOU ARE THE ONE GET BACK TO ME NOW…….
I just stumbled across a blog I wrote at age… oh dear god, 18? If you read this, keep in mind this took place during my early days of hating Delta, and! (I believe) the very same day I discovered coffee.
Enjoy “Sir Vladimir”, unedited.
__________________
January 5th, 2006
7:10pm, Flight 104 Air Portugal, Somewhere over Boston
Insight into my addled little head would prove disastrous. I have determined this (for the umpteenth time) roughly thirty four seconds ago. I made a massive discovery just then.
There is someone living in my head. No, I don’t mean this in a completely literary way… though at the same time I might be fibbing on this point so that my strangely interested reader doesn’t turn me over to the psychiatric authorities for being stricken with madness. I am, in fact, stricken with madness, just to assure you. Anyway. Returning to my massive discovery.
There is a resounding echo in my head. An echo of some sort of turbulent and galavanting brain wave that for some reason wishes to reverberate with sound. As in, I hear my own thoughts. I know we all hear our own thoughts… but I have just come to the astounding and breath-stealing conclusion that they literally… dear god, how to put this properly into near-scientific terms… they speak. Aloud. These galavanting brain waves speak aloud with SOUND in my HEAD, as if there is a little crazy person sitting up there with a miniaturized version of Psychology Today screaming his head off when he comes across interesting topics. Now, regardless of Miranda Rights, I fear I’m now inexorably committed to a mental institution. Seriously. I’m thinking of checking myself in.
Regardless. This little man, upon command and/or involuntary shall scream, laugh maniacally, sing off-key ditties by Cher, ponder so hard that his mini-brain beings to melt into mini-brain-mush… anything. I can command him. He is under my command. By God, I wish I could find a man that I could control in a similar fashion.
So I’m sitting here in seat 15H, next to a guy that thankfully doesn’t smell like old cheese (though unfortunately half of the other people on this plane do, and it’s like a collective cloud that refuses to be shut out by my nostrils). Limburger… Swiss…
Well anyway. I made a second massive discovery today, as well. Well, it’s not technically my second, due to the fact that it preceded the little-crazy-person-in-my-head theory. LCPIMH. I was eating some cashews roughly seven minutes ago now, and before I knew it, one of them was knocked to the floor. NO! That is not so! It willfully FLUNG itself off my questionably sturdy tray table ONTO the floor due to it’s propensity for ADVENTURE. What’s that? Yes. YES. I do, with my entire being, believe that this cashew embodies an ASTOUNDING propensity for adventure. That is not to say that ALL cashews, even those flung onto the floor by other external elements, embody any propensity for adventure whatsoever. I dare-say that such a gift is few and far between in the nut kingdom. Or is it the legume kingdom? And what the hell is a legume, anyway? It sounds like some kind of exotic boil one develops in an unsavory area that cannot be treated due to it’s connection to some vital blood vessel or something. Gross. I hope I never get that.
Anyway. So my adventurous cashew FLINGS itself to the floor, and lays there a moment, catching it’s breath from the sheer adrenaline coursing through it’s cashew-veins. It is jubilant beyond belief, and has done a thing very few of it’s family members have before. It could be likened to an impoverished child being the first of it’s clan to go to college, or to the moon. Or, on that note, find a cure for the unfortunately located legume I’m sure half the nation is plagued with. Dear god, I bet it’s something ridiculous like the statistic of how many people have a deathly fear of tray-tables, like I do. One out of four. Or at least that’s what Mom told me. And believe me, it’s taking my entire bodily will not to leap out of my seat at this very moment and scream my bloody head off. It just seems like the thing is getting closer… closer and closer and HOLLLLYYY SHIT!!!! Don’t put your seat back, you’re putting your seat back, don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it don’t AHHHHHHHHHH!!!
…
It’s okay, they’ve restrained me. So nice of them to let me have my laptop back, and the jubilantly adventurous cashew, though I’m sure he would have liked it better laying there on the floor. I convinced him he’d eventually be mashed by the churning wheels of inevitability. The drink cart.
Anyway, so eventually they let me go after several hundred promises not to let out another explosive scream about the dangerous proximity of my tray-table, and I returned to 15H with Fred. Fred, the cashew. I figured it was only right to name him.
On that note, would it be unfair to deny the little insane man living in my head a name? A title? Something for which the title “Sir” can eventually be added before. Unless he’s already been knighted, which would really complicate things. Are you? What? By god. He is. What shall I call him? Fred. No no no… Fred is the cashew…
Bob, John, Barry, Dinklestrump, Vladimir… VLADIMIR. SIR VLADIMIR. That’s it! And that totally makes sense with his British accent.
The wheels of inevitability eventually careened by, carrying in their midst a lingering sense of woe and inescapable despair… why there was such a feeling as they past, I have no idea, but Vladimir certainly had much to say about it. Though strangely, he found it funny. We began arguing, and I was making so many varied facial expressions that the old guy next to me really began to take notice of my unusualness. This made the scenario even more hilarious, naturally, and I began snorting with seemingly unfounded laughter. The flight attendant looked at me suspiciously and she zoomed by again with her cart.
As I sat there essentially laughing and arguing with myself, another cart came by with the peaceable offerings of food. I took this as a sign, kind of a ‘white flag’ sort of thing. Fred and Vladimir simultaneously agreed. Sorry, Sir Vladimir… jesus, will you let it go already…!
I had the choice between pasta and chicken, and after several minutes of deliberation sided with poultry. What I failed to anticipate (and to Vladimir’s delight), was upon unveiling the miniature tomb that housed my “chicken” that the stuff looked more like chicken vomit than the actual deceased bird. I ate it anyway, because of the starving children. I think I saw a legume rolling around somewhere in there, too. I ate that as well.
These bouts of madness eventually cease their run, don’t worry. The lunacy eventually passes and I revert to a state that could be l likened to a stewed potato. And yes, if you’re wondering, you can stew a potato. You can also freeze and microwave and blow up a kiwi, but from experience, I’d highly suggest you don’t do that.
On second thought, DO.
The women in front of me looks suspiciously like she’s thinking about putting her seat back again, so I think I’m going to escape to the bathroom for a few hours and contemplate the meaning of my existence. It certainly can’t be to come to realizations about the fat little British guy in my head that somehow got knighted; do you know how many people die for that title, and he receives it? Oh, who cares anyway, he’s safe in my head. Don’t put it back don’t put it back don’t put it baccckkkk– AHHHHHHHHH! Damn it, here they come again. Excuse me, I now need to sprint toward the back of the plane and find some way to get out. It’s only thirty thousand feet or so, right? After all, I’m sure my massive wad of lunacy will cushion my fall. Vladimir agrees, so do take care of Fred. Bon voyage!
So I wake up this morning, ridiculously and blissfully content for the first time in weeks… I shuffle down the stairs, looking around for coffee through the I-went-to-bed-at-4-am eyeball blur… find said coffee, microwave it… sit down…
“I WANT A FUCKING REFUND FOR MY WEBSITE YOU F-ING…”
I won’t go on much further for the sheer amount of profanities that were idiotically strung about through yet another one of these psychotic webdesign client emails. Back in January (on my birthday, more specifically) I had some asshole get hold of my client files for the past three years and email absolutely everyone telling them how easy it was to do a credit card chargeback.
Granted, there were a few folks that didn’t get resume updates for the month and deserved refunds. Like, FIVE of them. And even though nobody but their parents/relatives/significant others were LOOKING at the freakin’ website anyway — in the theory of things, they deserved to get some money back. And they did.
However — all of these crazy people decided to jump into an email string screaming Class Action Lawsuit, Chargeback, and KILL ASHLEY! Jesus christ. SORRY, you pathetic people that have eight hours a day to spend theorizing on how to put a hit out on me because your SELF PRODUCED REEL didn’t get optimized for the measly TEN DOLLARS you paid to have it done — here’s your refund — but GET A LIFE, ALREADY!
Some of these nutters even went as far to research me, find out who I’m dating (The Boyfriend is a brilliant photographer), string together that OH MY GOD — we did some cross promotions together that OH MY GOD were actor affordable and OH MY GOD how could we possibly be working together?! It’s a conspiracy!!! LET’S DO A CHARGEBACK!
I really hate working with Wannabe Actors Who Think They Have Careers But Really Don’t Because They Suck And/Or Are 40 And Still Working the Temp Desk.
And if the “radicals” find this post they’ll freak out and try to report THIS to the BBB, too.
Coffee’s ready.
– Ashley
I absolutely love it when psychotic man-children (i.e. self-proclaimed ‘Power Brokers for Upscale LA Living’) decide to pick a fight with you over email.
The Boyfriend and I are in the process of attempting to find a new spot somewhere in Los Angeles… preferably a gigantic live/work loft we can turn into a fine art gallery ON the ocean… our sights are as full as our gigantic wine glasses.
March 3rd, 11:45pm, Mid-Wine: I’m sitting on a windowsill, sipping Pinot (as per usual), and find this gorgeous industrial loft downtown in a rather famous building. It’s for sale. I decide to take a cordial shot in the dark. I decide to email the broker with a proposal.
“Hello there, Bob*,” I type, eyeballs widening with fear at the gigantic snowflakes catapulting themselves around outside my window, “Just saw the lovely loft you represent… random, so please excuse — but would the owners be at all interested in doing a rental arrangement while it’s on the market?”
Keep in mind — as beautiful as this loft is — it’s not exactly a penthouse, either. Whomever is selling is not doing it because they “don’t need the money”.
I send the email, continue sipping my fermented grapes, and staring at the monster snowfall occurring in central Connecticut.
Ping!
I hate the sound of the iPhone email. However, I had one. From Bob, the ‘Upscale Power Broker’.
“We DO NOT DO short term rentals,” screamed the email in capitals, “NO ONE ELSE in Downtown does either. BOB.”
Well $*@! you, I grumble, mentally banishing him from my real estate search.
I have a bit of a problem, though. I have a hard time letting assholes like this — and their idiotic ’self proclaimed’ (read: fabricated) brokerage credits — go:
I had to. And I thought that’d be the end of it. Bob would realize he should — from this point forward — talk to clients with a Santa-inspired benevolence, understand further he’s also a client-mutilating dumbass — we’re obviously looking for exactly what he proclaims to be his speciality – and either apologize or go sit in the pool of sorrow that is his single, shitty studio apartment in East LA.
Bob replies:
Dumbass. Really? You’re in the people business and you’re REALLY risking pissing someone off — for absolutely no reason — to get in the “last word”?
Perhaps it was the wine — or the fact that I’m just EXTREMELY confrontational when it comes to dealing with idiots — OR the fact that I was the highest grossing agent at Corcoran/Citi-Habitats when I was in real estate, and I HATE pompous real estate agents like this in general:
Then this mole of a human being goes and Googles me. He unearths my Backstage blog from ’07-’08.
Wow. I’m just absolutely amazed that a grown man — who doesn’t sound like a young kid, from my perspective [he sounds like a crotchety late 40-something that tried to be an actor, got a shitty job paying minimum wage in the William Morris mailroom instead (if that's not a delusion of his warped noggin, too), and got fired because he didn't have the intelligence or people skills to survive in the entertainment industry --] would further an email fight.
My final email, before blocking the guy — considering it’s now Thursday morning, I’m happily sipping on coffee, and I’m realizing what a ridiculous vat of shit this has gotten stirred into:
And… close the book on Psychotic Not-So-Powerful-’Power-Broker’-Bob. I won’t throw in his first last name, because I’m kind of afraid he’ll do more Googling, find this, and come stab me in my sleep.
At this point, I’m seriously considering whether I should move back to Los Angeles. There’s too many people out of their f-ing minds.
Perhaps I’ll move to Alaska and build an igloo. Might have trouble with the coffee, though…
– Ashley
I have this amazing ability to frequent a Manhattan coffee shop, order a cup of regular, and allow it to go perfectly cold before ever touching it. Each time this happens, I wonder why I’m surprised.
O’Reiley’s Irish Pub at 31st and Broadway. 2:51pm. Also surprised why, out of all the Irish Pubs in Manhattan, I come here when I need to hole up somewhere and work. Especially when I know The Boyfriend (during The Separation) brought the only person on the globe I actually — and vehemently — hate here. She gave him a love note, then. He kept it.
I like to pretend she has wall-eye.
Sigh.
Having a tough time with the homelessness (please note I’m not sleeping on a bench, but rather don’t have a solidified lease and am presently bouncing around aimlessly), and The Boyfriend’s inability to realize that I’m smarter than him.
Not in a pompous way, mind you. But after starting several companies on my own which I’m happy to have The Boyfriend involved with (as mentioned, The Boyfriend is very supportive, a good kisser, and generally wonderful to have around) — The Boyfriend has taken to thinking he knows better than me about things. We had a discussion yesterday that has now rendered us… well, discussion-less — for more than 24 hours.
I may have also told The Boyfriend to go fuck himself and learn PHP coding, then talk to me. Considering his lack of computer background, we might not be speaking for awhile.
Interesting… the tendencies of relationships. When things are good — when money isn’t a directly pressing issue — when you’re actually having life-is-great-intercourse on a regular basis — you wonder how anything could ever go wrong, how anything could possibly infringe upon your unrealistic snowglobe of bliss.
Until some clepto finds it and flings it against a marble wall.
I’m only twenty three. Sometimes I wonder where I’m going.
Coffee’s cold again. *@#$.
– Ashley
Random fan letters are the best. I recently received (via my manager, as I try to keep my personal-personal email hidden from the world, stalkers, and Bill Clinton at all costs) a letter from a Mr. Thomas:
Hi Ms. Bluestone,
I am very sorry to take up your time. I am a big fan of Ms. Avis and think she is such a beautiful actress! Could you please let me know how I could obtain an autograph picture of Ms. Avis. Does she have a fan mail address that I could mail a self-addressed stamped envelope to? I truly appreciate any help that you could provide. Thank you so much for your time!
Aloha,
John Thomas
Now, my first instinct is to be insanely flattered and send this John Thomas a fruit basket. However, the inner cynic in me has a few questions first:
- How and why are you a fan?
- What have I done that deserves any accolades, really?
- If it is accolade-relevant, what are you a fan of?
– My writing and firing from Nielsen?
– The borderline interesting indie film work?
– The Miss Teen Universe pageant at sixteen by which I walked the runway [in a rhinestoned bikini] with an accidentally self-induced concussion? - Why is your name the most stereotypical thing on the planet besides Bob Smith, and CLEARLY not Hawaiian?
Perhaps John really is a random cult-like groupie (and, trust me, I’d love to have a gaggle of random cult-like groupies who want my signed headshot), but I just can’t seem to shake that this email is written stylistically similar to those “You’ve inherited 430 million dollars from an estranged uncle, so please send a mere $1,000 via Western Union to Africa to claim it…” emails from third world country scam artists.
Then again, what is my signed headshot worth… really? Perhaps this really is a fan. Named John Thomas. Who was adopted by an American family who’s simply crazy about free healthcare. Or perhaps it’s one of my maniacal webdesign clients, who’s just Amazon.com’ed a book on voodoo.
Regardless, signing one of my freakin’ headshots, here we come.
– Ashley
You know what’s great? Being a kid and getting away with everything short of murder. Like “exploring” (i.e. sneaking into the Creepy Neighbor’s house to observe him), “scavenging” (i.e. getting up at 3 a.m. with your little brother to search for loose change around the house), and crank calling.
I loved crank calling when I was a kid. I was a crank calling fiend. If you were in the Yellow Pages, you were instantly at risk that my voice would greet you on the other line sometime around 3:45 and 5:15, post school and prior to Doctor Mom coming home from “squeezing puss” all day, as she would put it.
My crank calling was never random, either. I would specifically look for people with strange last names, as it was naturally assumed that these individuals were inherently weird anyway and deserved to be pranked.
“Erwin Bogstrupple”, for example. I’d definitely call that guy.
My biggest “pitch” during my crank calling career was coupled with the fact that I was (at age 10 or 11), learning how to do basic webdesign.
At this point I knew how to create simple webpage, reserve a domain, and upload the contents — however ridiculous — to the internet for the world to see. The possibilities of this skill were absolutely endless for my imagination. Just conceive of the innocent little deceptions I could create!
YouWonTHECHEESE.com!!! was only an inevitable matter of time.
December 12th, 1995. Get home / eat a pop tart / deceive Immigrant Baby Sitter / obtain cordless phone
Riiiiing. Riiiiing.
Long Incessantly Annoying Beep: “Hi! You’ve reached Weird @*($-ing Name Ashley Can’t Stand! I’m not dancing around the house right now, so puhhh-lease leave a message after the beep, BEEP! Just kidding, haha! And I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Or maybe not! Who knows! BEEP! Haha…”
I hated these people. These PEOPLE who leave MESSAGES on their machines that just go on and on and ramble for a seemingly interminable amount of time for absolutely no conceivable reason. WE GET IT. An ineludable beep at the end of your ridiculous vomiting of poorly strung syllables WILL AT SOME POINT OCCUR. Enough of dragging the process out more, already!
They deserved it, I would always mentally justify. They forced innocent people to listen to minutes upon minutes of idiotic banter. They way I saw it, they stole little pieces of people’s lives.
Riiiiing. RIIIIIING.
Long Incessantly Annoying Beep: “Hi! You’ve reached…”
Me [in a booming announcer's voice]: “CONGRATULATIONS, LUCY! Yoouuuuu’ve won THE CHEESE! Sixteen pounds of limburger, swiss, or the fine innards of GOAT?! WHO KNOWS! Go to www.youwonthecheese.com to claim your prize!”
I’d then hang up, insanely thrilled with myself, and go run around the block for a few hours to wear off the sugar high I’d inevitably gotten myself on.
I never knew what happened to the people who got these messages. I did, however, leave about 500 of them… and I had actually built a website that listed each name with a type of “Cheese Won” next to it. Forty-five pounds of limburger was my favorite go-to prize.
The delivery within 4-6 weeks was a sham, though. I hope nobody was ever too disappointed.
Ah… the sweet — endless hours of childhood. This was almost as fun as that time I captured a four foot pelican off the end of my dock and kept it in the house for three days. Parents still don’t know about THAT one.
Time for a gigantic hunk of Brie.
– Ashley
Wanna know what’s awesome? Being 18-years-old with washboard abs no matter what horrific food-plunder you place inside your body… and doing REALLY BAD indie films.
This one is called The Leather Vixens, and I just re-found it doing another random drunk Google search. It’s pretty freakin’ awesome… somehow got into a few obscure film festivals, too.
I showed up for the audition dressed in head-to-toe black leather. I was 18. Feel free to judge me.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1vP1m-hiAI&hl=en_US&fs=1&]
Dear Delta,
I was recently on flight 45 from Los Angeles to Tampa, Florida. The flight was as delightful as flights-in-coach can theoretically be, the salted peanuts were more than satisfactory, and my complimentary pillow — to my surprise — did not smell of disgruntled infant feces. All fantastic factors I think your airline should be overwhelmingly proud of.
However — one minor detail seemed to elude the Delta Team on August 31st, 2009. It concerned a window in row 16. A window that didn’t exist.
Before you crumple-toss this letter aside with the assumption that it’s some random flying patron who is exasperated by the lack-of-free-blanket-situation you have going on… continue reading. I have a serious issue to discuss with you, Delta.
Upon sitting down and (consequently spilling my overpriced airport Macchiato) in seat 16A, I shortly thereafter became aware that the entirety of my row would remain unoccupied for the duration of the flight (or “Delta flying experience”, as I’ve come to call it). I made a fateful slide over to seat 16B. The Gods were watching out for me that morning.
After the customary buckling of the seatbelt, perusing the irrelevant pop-art safety precaution pamphlet, and draining the rest of my less-than-strong vanguard coffee, I prepared myself for takeoff. The stewardesses did their safety thing (failing yet again to inform us of our ultimately screwed position if something went minority wrong with the plane), and the airliner began trucking down the runway.
It began to take up speed.
I continued sucking down my Macchiato.
This is where it gets interesting.
About forty-five seconds into takeoff, just when I was about to reach for the prohibited electronic item and turn it on — a sudden WHHHHHUUUSHHH sound erupted from my direct right, accompanied by a large window FLYING out of the window socket and ramming into the place where my head would have been, right in window-seat of 16A.
WHHHHHUUUSHHH.
We had just taken off from the ground of the runway. And the window of row 16 had ERUPTED out of the airplane.
I was shockingly calm as I eye-bulgingly stared at the emply place where the window should have been. Obese Pearl-Wearing Domestic Woman in row 17 began screaming, and hysterically proclaiming how we were all about to plunge rapidly to our deaths.
Everyone else was staring at the hole, listening to the WHHHUUSSSH sound, and essentially in various progressive states of shock.
“WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIIIIIE!”
With one look at Obese Pearl Wearing Domestic Woman, I decided then and there that if I was fated to plunge into the cement runway of LAX on that absurdly early morning hour, I was certainly not going to do it with the shrill voice of an over-pampered retard resounding in my head.
And with one steady motion… I leaped upon the fallen window.
Yes. Leaped, Delta.
I grappled it between two 22-year-old arms, and I forced it back into the gaping hole from whence it came.
WHHHUUUSSS…hhh…….. hhh…. h.
The sound stopped.
Obese Pearl Wearing Woman tempered her yelling into a soft hyperventilating wheeze.
The passengers all looked at one another. Did the stiletto-wearing chick in seat 16(B) just save us all?
I was mentally forgiven for my second personal item by the entire aircraft that day.
We landed in Tampa with gusto (funny how the pilot instructed all stewardesses not to leave their seats for the entirety of the ride) and the WHUUUUSH sound only re-emitted three or four more times. I was not able to hear high-pitched sounds for a good six days after the experience. I’m pretty sure Obese Pearl Wearing Woman is now deceased.
And thus, Delta, for all of the effort and borderline customer servicing of your psychotic Midwestern patrons (and, you know, circumventing near death) I feel entitled to either the sum of 13.5 million dollars, or free flights for the rest of my life.
I’m certain I’m being more than fair — and if anything, giving you guys a massive deal.
Think of all the lawsuits you could have had. Think of all of the eardrum replacement therapy you would have had to provide for. The cost of re-caucking the window so that it fits back into it’s original frame.
I look forward to your response, Delta. Thank you most sincerely for the opportunity to be in a position to legally screw you over.
Think you can routinely take my nail clippers? What now.
Most sincerely, Ashley Avis
