Catarrh

Catarrh

From Dictionary.com:
Inflammation of a mucous membrane, especially of the respiratory tract, accompanied by excessive secretions

We approach our final cruising altitude of 35,000 feet and I am fairly certain my head will explode.  The mucous lining my sinus cavities throbs, the flight attendant passes me a paper napkin and asks what I want to drink, my grip tightens on my armrests.  Coke please.  No, ginger ale.  No no, coke, coke please.  Do we get peanuts?  I want very much to go to the bathroom because: A) I could drip freely without shame, B) it would be a space unshared and all to myself, C) I could pee, and D) there are no windows.  I do not need to bear witness to this blatant flouting of natural evolution.  We do not get peanuts.  Icarus flies to close to the sun and he doesn't even get a packet of fucking peanuts for the trip?  Bullshit.  The bathroom is somehow already occupied.  Undoubtedly by someone else who wants to avoid looking at this deathtrap.  I am currently aware of every single sinus cavity in my head (they all are burning red hot) as well as all the emergency exits.  I have also gone through every fellow passenger and determined how they work into my projected emergency landing plans.  The two people to my left would be useless.  These people were not girl/boy scouts.  They do not possess the Survivor Knowledge or the Survivor Poise.  Their bodies don't look to have any particularly tasty meat and they aren't very attractive.  This is as troubling as the lack of peanuts.  Also worrisome is the inordinate number of persons under twelve, who of course do not actually count as persons at all.  There are fifteen children, possibly more hiding.  They will be a major setback.  The flight attendant sets a small bag of pretzels in front of me, I blow my nose, we all collectively lurch to the right.  My eyes are watering.  I weep for my sad future with all these children on an island somewhere in the middle of Lake Michigan.  If I'm lucky, most of them won't survive the crash.  If I'm lucky, neither will the two mouth breathers next to me.  If I'm lucky, the island our crash site my future home will have an overabundance of Benadryl sprouting forth from the lush foliage covering the land and the mucous will run freely from my head which has remained intact and the same relative size.  I eat my pretzels.