Thanks JFK for being awesome. NOW FEATURING THE LATE EDITION EDIT

The weather is quite gorgeous; no wind, 50 degrees, not a cloud in the sky.

My flight is delayed an hour and a half.

So thanks JFK, for wasting this hour and a half of my life that I could be using to do anything else, but will instead spend roaming the internet. I could do some reading for class, but I'm pissed and don't want to, so I'm not going to.

Fuckies.

Oh, and there is a man walking around with a rather sick looking baby. (Disclaimer so you do not think that I am an entirely cold hearted bitch) I feel bad that the baby has a cold, really, I do, but if there is a snot covered baby next to me on the flight, it would just be icing on my already hour-and-a-half-delayed cake.

EDIT: Yes, really. I am going to now recount the remainder of my evening, in all of its nauseous glory.

So my flight, initially delayed from 7:30 to 8, and then until 8:30, didn't actually leave the ground until 9:30 because we taxied for about 45 minutes. Thank you Port Authority for closing one of the runways for the holiday. I like to celebrate Easter by causing inconvenience, too, so I totally get where they are coming from.

The plane took off, and despite my full knowledge of the fact that I will get sick from doing so, I pushed my face against the glass to get that one last look at my city. (I can't help it, I'm a voyerist. I watch when blood is drawn, too. I know I'll feel sick, but I do it anyway.) The city looked stunning. The bridges, the flickering orange lights, the darkness of the water against the light polluted sky. It took my breath away.

And then the wing tipped, and we dropped a bit. In that moment I regretted that canoli I shoved down my throat on the car ride over to the airport. The rest of the flight was turbulent, and seeing as how this was the first flight that I haven't drugged myself for, I felt ill. I wished I had taken some sort of allergy medicine to clear my ears. The cologne on the 13 year old boy sitting next to me compounded with the stuffy cabin was not helping matters. Actually, I wished I was sedated with some sort of sleeping aid as I have been the last 4 or 5 flights I have taken.

"Chips or cookies?"

For the first, and probably only time in my life, I refused blue chips, arguably God's greatest joke of a snack food ever created. I wanted to ask if there was a third option of Valium, but I refrained from saying anything at all, for fear of unleashing projectile vomit on Makai (the 13 year old boy's name. I heard his mother use it. Really guys, who the hell's name is Makai?)

Then came the final decent, and in that moment I regretted ever eating anything in my life. I could feel it coming. I started counting. I stared at the letters on the back of my chair. I willed the vomit to stay where it belonged. I didn't pray, though, because Jesus has much bigger fish to fry, and plus, its Easter. He is probably celebrating or something.

I landed without incident. The vomit stayed in. I staggered to the T, and made my way back. It was uneventful; two men got on the T who were rather attractive. One looked exactly like Jin from Lost, and the other like a more realistic version of Chase from House. Then one opened his mouth and his er, uh, sexual preference swirled around him like a pink, glittery cloud, and my interested immediately dissipated and I road the rest of the way back to school wallowing in my nausea.

So that's that. I realized that I racked up a lifetime of bad travel karma when I was 3 and my mother flew back with me from Florida while I had a fever high enough to keep me passed out from a double ear infection and strep, yet still somehow allowed me to projectile vomit for the entire flight. That must have been really fun for every one else on board.