Mostly rambles, few brambles
I Take Chloroform To Fly
This piece originally ran on Slackjaw on 10/19/20
Excuse me, yeah; no, don’t worry, I’m not someone who talks to their seat-mates. Heads up, though, in a second I’ll be huffing a lot into this chemical-soaked rag. It’s fine. Ignore it and don’t worry about me the rest of the flight. I’ll be asleep/suspended-between-life-and-death shortly.
Sorry, did you not hear me, or did you just not want to listen? I’m very opposed to jabber, having sat next to too many chatterboxes and their long, unsolicited personal stories and ailment listings. My gracious little spiel here isn’t intended to open a nag-heavy dialogue. When life gives you lemons, a fear of flying, and a disgraced pharmacist for a grandfather, you make a lemonade-scented anesthetic that puts you under for your entire flight.
I don’t know your friend, and like I implied when you were apparently not listening, I don’t care about anything that’s ever happened to you in your entire life. If you must know a little about me, I’m a Gemini, my family history is a bit — let’s say — checkered, I detest talking to people on airplanes, and neither alcohol, nor sleeping pills, nor tedious anti-drug lectures from complete strangers can calm me the way a lemon-fresh, consciousness-halting rag does. We’re all human. Sometimes we all need something to help us stave off the unpleasantness, like the way you’ve toted that congealing sack of Burger King on board.
I don’t care that you’ve Googled the dangers of self-chloroforming. I don’t want your anti-huff propaganda. It’s beyond rude. Meanwhile, I haven’t once mentioned the dangers of flying, talking to strangers, or consuming a multi-pound haul of Burger King.
Lemon-blasted oblivion is my destination, and your meddling combined with my good manners are getting in the way. Without my sweet, sweet sleep juice, I’ll be awake, anxious, and teetering on a knife-edge for the next four hours watching a neutered version of Uncut Gems while you lap up that melted ice cream pie thing. Hard pass.
Four-hour flight, I’d say about a rag’s worth. It is a science, but I don’t treat it like that. My grandfather was the kidnapping pharmacist, not me.
How precise is a rag’s worth? The answer is: not very precise.
Stop, really. You’re starting to spew post-consumer King. Listen for one second, do whatever you want, but, please, don’t wake me up. Not for the beverage cart, not if I’m unconscious when the plane lands, not if we’re crashing and you can’t figure out how to eat while wearing the oxygen mask. I absolve you of all responsibility for my well-being. You, or rather Google, were not wrong about chloroform. I may quietly, albeit very respectfully, overdose on this flight. However, I will not project this inconvenience onto anyone else, except the Denver Airport and the Airport Morgue.
Should I still be unconscious/dead/trapped in another grandfather-laden nightmare when you deplane, kindly leave me here in my Schrodinger’s Passenger state. Exit unencumbered, free of potential corpse-discovery, and do enjoy all of Greater Denver’s wonderful Burger Kings.