Better Living Through Chemistry

Whenever I fly, I will invariably be seated next to either screaming triplets or an insane person, or some combination thereof. Earlier this week, I took an 8 hour flight to London to BWI. On this trip, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was seated next to an attractive woman. Of course, I knew that Assclownometrius, The God of All Things Assclown, would not pass up such an opportunity to deliver his wrath upon me.

I gave her a cursory inspection and no triplets, facial tattoos, or electric shock collars were detected. Long ago, I learned that the functionally-insane can be fairly adept at masking their instability. A psychologist-type ex-gf once told me that people with mental problems can frequently be spotted by how they dress. I have found this wisdom to be very true, particularly with women. However, my seatmate was wearing nothing unusual, just a fairly stylish sweater and jeans. Spying none of the telltale signs, I took my seat and buckled up.

It was only after all of the decent remaining open seats had been taken, that I realized that she was sufficiently wacky. What I had missed was her shoes. Although I'm vaguely aware that pointy shoes are in style, she was wearing the pointiest pair of shoes that I had ever seen on someone who wasn't a court jester. These shoes were also vividly multi-colored, covering the spectrum from orange to purple, leading me to believe that she was a recent graduate of Clown (or Assclown, as it were) College. It turned out to be worse than that.

She said that she was an American graduate student studying Garden History in Bristol, England. She also said that her undergraduate degree was in Art History, but, suprisingly, she couldn't do anything with it. Thus, she had come to England to study the history of art constructed from shrubs. In other words, she had spent the last 7 years unsuccessfully trying to earn her Mrs. degree. This was a problem for her because it turns out that she didn't actually like English people and England is known to have an abundance of them. I learned quickly that she was her favorite subject and this was a topic that she was prepared to discuss at length. Unfortunately, I didn't find the topic nearly as fascinating and I found myself subconsciously calculating, and liking, my odds of survival from a emergency exit jump from 36,000 feet.

Desperation set in when she received vodka from the beverage cart. I knew that alcohol would be high test babble fuel. Like a drowning man who discovers a life vest, I then remembered the Nuclear Option. One of the people I was traveling with had given me several potent prescription sleeping pills for the flight to England, in order to avoid jet lag. I normally don't take drugs, so I still had them in my bag. My instructions were to take one pill and wait 20 minutes for drowsiness to ensue. As desperate times require desperate measures, I took three. Thankfully, I really can't say what happened next. I did wake up 4 hours later to visit the restroom. When I sat down again, she said something about snoring and I, vaguely, remember her droning on as I returned to my blissful coma. I probably should have asked for her phone number, anyway. If I ever find myself in a perpetual vegetative state, she's the girl for me.