So Long, F*ckers

I am sitting in the Fargo airport. I feel like, even though there are only four gates, that I have fought a battle to get here, into this weirdly bendable seat. My back is tired from carrying this laptop. My face is frowny. I am slightly chilled. And also, I have nothing to eat.

I just found out that our plane is late. I have a Mall of America to go to, goddamnit. Doesn't anyone in the north care about my feelings?!

I have never once complained about this "heightened security" farce that goes on in our airports. "As long as it keeps us safe," I always said. But today, TODAY, when I have a bag packed to the brim carefully and strategically placed dirty underwear, they want to go through my bags. They don't have an X-Ray here, since they live in Nowheresville, USA, and so they just unpack our bags, go through our stuff, and then send us on our merry way to their one of four gates.

They are going through my bags. They are moving the tripod that I had to shove between my Coca-Cola shirt and mint green sweater so it wouldn't disturb the hard drive that sat two layers of clothes beneath it.

There are DV tapes jammed in the corners lengthwise. My swimsuit is cradling all of my cables, lovingly and with a spandex 'tude. These people have no idea the level of intricacy that went into packing these bags. Plus, they're touching my unmentionables. Touching them. The cute little boyshorts and sheer hipsters that I bring so I won't feel so far away from home. Some gross guy with grease under his fingernails saying things like "Uff'da" and "You bet'cha" knows me almost as well as my boyfriend.

I am super cranky. These people are setting off my OCD. I just want to get to the mall and stress-shop.

I have been told that I must go to the General Mills Experience. Apparently at this magical place they mix any kinds of GM cereal that one desires. This intrigues me. But I am having trouble picking my cereals right now.

frankenberry? g