The story of Me Part 3

Continued from here and here (in that order, if you wish for it to make sense (your call, really))

I was going to end my travels to America there, and skip to when we landed. Which would be a logical thing to do. But then it was my first time flying and what the hell might as well share with ya’ll (somehow, a southern accent seemed appropriate here).

Getting through security was very intimidating. I think at the airport security school that is exactly what they teach them – to look intimidating. I can’t get over the feeling to this day. Every time I go through a security check, I feel like breaking down and pulling a bag of heroine out of my asshole (no, I do not normally carry heroine in my asshole).

But I did have a stuffed animal in my hands. A grown ass thirteen-year-old (because since childhood, I am what you might call, large boned) with a stuffed animal in hands. And the reason I had a stuffed animal in my hands is because it didn’t fit anywhere in our luggage. It wasn’t even mine, it was my sister’s. I had no emotional attachment to it, and would have gladly dropped it in the nearest bin. But it was my sister’s precious gift. And her being 19, with a stuffed animal in hands, might have attracted some attention from already suspicious security. So, I generously offered my services. And that thing went through all security conveyor belts. I dutifully put it in along with other people’s handbags and laptops. People gave me sad and for some reason understanding looks. I carried on.

The plane ride was actually exciting for me. No dirt for you here. Thankfully, I am not afraid of flying. I got a window sit. I was flying to America and running Hollywood stardom scenes in my head. My sister however. I had to stop the sentence there. Just so you understand. She was leaving her boyfriend behind, and the many many friends that appeared to multiply uncontrollably ever since we made an announcement of us going to the U.S. and A. She was leafing through the good-bye wishes her friends wrote down in a pretty notebook made, I assume, specifically for such purpose. Not the smartest thing to do, if you ask me. Naturally, she got emotional and sad and started crying. A lot. I, in a spur of comradeship, pulled out the same sad notebook put together by my friends. Read through it. Now, keep in mind that my friends were thirteen-years-old. A lot of the writings were just damn right ridiculous. My soul was not touched. I didn’t feel emotional to the slightest bit, but I did not give up. I took my sister’s notebook. That stuff was hard core. To the bone type of thing. So there we sat crying and reading over my sister’s notebook. Hollywood stardom scenes kept playing somewhere in the back of my head.

P.S. Here is a childhood picture of my sister and me. I am the smaller one (but she’s the skinnier one now…)


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