I expended last night on an airplane. The masses swarming around the waiting area to board the plane contained multitudes of handsome young men, and visions of flirtatious, fine conversation regaled my brain. Once I finally seized my seat, I sorrowfully realized King and Kong flanked me. Lack of legroom compelled me to consign my backpack to above, while my oversized purse and I pinched between limitless limbs. Displeased by my non-idyllic circumstances, Kong instantly assaulted me with questions and life inquiries. He pestered me with countless queries: where are you from, do you like it there, what do you do, how long have you been unemployed, what was your family life like growing up, as the oldest did you beat up your siblings, where did you go to college, etc. etc. Kong boasted Erckle glasses, shocks of white side-hair, and a coffee toupee. As life-customary, I was exhausted, and my head hastily bent back, eyes simultaneously shut, and mouth elegantly expanded into oblivion before the plane progressed movement. My coma-condition resembled sedation. I was drug-delighted. Until Kong continually poked and prodded me out of my reverie. Eyes revolving, head rotating, I mumbled, "What what what?" Kong explained he couldn't sleep, and I should concentrate on the imminent safety proceedings. The remainder of the five-hour flight formed me feigning Snow-White-trance, and Kong attempting to awake me by various methods of jabbing, screeching, and pulling. His parting words of wisdom as I blearily exited the plane at four in the morning: he had the sleeping capacity of a giraffe.
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