Rorschach’s Journal: July 11th, 2012 The quaint maxim goes: getting there is half the fun. Disagreed. That is of course unless the other, equally fun portion is having your pancreas probed by a particularly dull ice pick. Human beings were not meant to fly, that privilege is reserved for birds and blue-hued supermistakes with obtrusive, perpetually exposed wangs. Airlines are bloated sloths feeding on necessity, and I found myself in its cold grip. I waited until nightfall, seeking to evade notice under the loving cover of darkness. Then, putting on my best disguise of normalcy, my face packed neatly in carry-on, I gritted my teeth through security and boarded the metal, winged sarcophagus; succumbing quickly to a rage nap. This moment of complacency was duly punished, I should have known better. Suddenly the plane bucked like a seasoned companion-for-hire and altered course. Explanations of pressurization malfunction were groaned over the intercom, but I was sure I had been found out. Had the influence of the laughable Keene Act finally asserted influence over the TSA? No parachute, would have to fight my way out of this one on the ground.