Title: Who says penguins can't fly?
Music du jour: Crystal Method, Vegas
(Most of this was written on the plane on Sunday. It's just now getting uploaded because, well, it is. Live with it.)
Well, here I am, faithful little laptop in hand, looking down on a layer of clouds from 33,000 feet up. Despite the fact that I'm on a 737, which is cramped at best, I am enjoying myself. I've never written a journal entry from this altitude. Be excited with me. I knew you could.
Assuming the plane doesn't fall out of the sky or something, I'm meeting Amy for supper tonight. I haven't seen that woman in almost two years. Ironically, the first time I hooked up with her, it was 10 - 13 February 1998. I was newly unemployed, having gotten fired by USA.Net that week (the bastards), and I needed a break from four extremely stressful months of fighting off creditors and similar nasty creatures. I hopped a Space A flight from Peterson AFB and rode a C-21 to Andrews AFB for ten bucks. (There are occasions when being in the military has its privileges, although they're still few and far between. Getting a hop to Andrews was one; getting 50% off my tattoo was the other.)
Tomorrow Amy and I are going to have an anti-Valentine's Day celebration. We are going to drink beer and curse all married people (never you mind that I'm married -- I can still be bitter and cynical, dammit). It is going to rule.
-- marcie.
