for leather and a lollipop: Melancholy, plane and simple

The following was written on notebook paper on the plane between catnaps:

I survived week one with my family and part one of the epic trilogy that is my summer vacation. It was looking a bit iffy there for a while. I love my family more than life itself, but they are exhausting sometimes.

Harry Potter was an extraordinary, emotional, draining kind of event. My best friend and I arrived around 3pm. Because a) we're insane and b) it's the last one (the latter excuses the former. Really.). It's in the constitution, read it sometime, bitches. Anyway. Super quick synopsis: gorgeous cinematography, bits of awkwardness, Chuck Finch fucked up (dammit, gaffer, do your job!!), best friend and I sobbed pretty much the whole movie. She was Dobby. I was Hipster Harriet Potter.

I'm on the plane now, watching the Rachel-Loves-Schu episode of Glee, being actively reminded of how exhausted I am by the fact that I keep bursting into tears every five minutes for no apparent reason. It's very distracting, I am running out of napkins, and my seatmate appears most concerned for my sanity and her safety. I am the picture of functionality. Meanwhile, the women in front of me are on their fourth and fifth respective bloody marys and have spend the majority of the flight quizzing the flight attendants on their Hawaiian and hitting on anything with a penis. It's good times. I'm fairly certain they preboarded the Hot Mess Express in Sacramento. Ah well. Takes all kinds, I guess. Hope they have a ride when we land.

Anyway.

I slept maybe an hour last night. It's interesting the things that come floating to the surface when my defenses are down. Airplanes do that anyway, for whatever reason, they make me extremely introspective. Thoughts of the future, of the past, of truth, of fact--of the difference--of choosing to believe what I like despite and due to evidence to the contrary. Impossible is nothing.

I miss my bed. I miss my tiny apartment. I miss my adopted toddler waiter. I miss my fount of the majority of my distress, and consolation. It's that curious soreness that you wish would bruise so it would at least have a tangible, visible origin.

There's something about being flung several thousand miles in an aluminum can that always puts me in such a chatty melancholy. Meantime, I'm addicted to the soundtrack for Rio. It's a movie about birds. With awesome samba music. And also Jamie Foxx. So, right off, pretty good.

Needless to say, I haven't taken my meds in quite a long time. I had a cinnabon and two cups of POG. This was likely ill-advised, and also the explanation for why I am sitting here talking about how tired I am instead of sleeping and possibly eradicating the issue. That would make far too much sense. Accursed logic.

Pics for good measure!!!

First are a few random ass terrible sketches from the plane. Don't judge me.