Day 5: I Want to Be a Ballerina

They took my airport pass away from me today. I don't have children, but I'm pretty sure it was like losing a child. I've always had an airport pass. Hamilton, Toronto, Edmonton, Chihuaha... It was like cutting my heart out with a dull knife, leaving the veins and arteries flapping in the wind, blood everywhere. Kind of like that really strange looking dead rabbit on the side of Trans Canada 1, otherwise known as the Ottobun (I'm speaking Leducian). And then it dawned on me, I want to be a Ballerina. I mean, I really want to be a ballerina. They have the perfect shaped heads. They really do. Nothing like a penis (just because your head is shaped like a penis, Mr. Pilot, doesn't mean you had sex before and I'm pretty sure that hot chick you were with at the company party was a prostitute. And that just doesn't count). A little plastic surgery, and I can be a ballerina too! The skills. I could maneuver the beer cans on the floor in my living room with such grace, I would never have to take back empties again. Because, I am, a ballerina.

Okay, so I hate airplanes, I hate flying, and I'm deathly afraid of heights. Maybe aviation wasn't my best choice in careers. I will, however, miss sitting in the cockpit strapped on top of 40,000lbs of flammable liquid. That, somehow, was fun for me. Kind of like skydiving for beginners, someone pushes you out of an airplane and you really have nothing left to do except fall. As long as your heart doesn't stop, the ride down is quite smooth. Nothing like skiing, you've got a better chance of missing the trees.

Other Things I Will Miss: 1. Losing my car in the airport employee parking lot. 2. Feeling the breeze through the crack in my windshield driving along the highway, rejoicing as the 20th stone chip hits my windshield because it justifies why I haven't replaced it after the big and little dippers joined together in harmony (I can still see distant objects through it) 3. Parking my car in the bosses reserved parking space with "I embezzled a million dollars from xxx company and don't pay my taxes". 4. Dancing naked at midnight in the office lunchroom.

Those days are gone. Although I'm starting to enjoy the unemployment office. A very nice gentleman complimented my hair today as I was slowly losing my will to live. He asked me if I chose that colour myself. I really didn't know how to answer a question like that, though. I mean, should I have said yes? Or should I have said that my 12 staff colourists chose it for me but since I'm unemployed, they're not so happy anymore?