Shut Up Michigan, No One's Talking To You

Like any obedient convict under house arrest, my first month on probation has gone swimmingly. No late shows, sick calls, nor public shankings to prove my air cred. The crash pad I call home consist of 12 people, six males and six females. With a turnover rate like the trump administration, there is at most four people in the two bedroom condo at any given time. All working for different carriers, we come home and share our exciting stories of our heroic efforts of cleaning up vomit, spraying the lavs with deodorizer and catching underaged minors making a run for it when deplaning. The occasional 5 hour airport stand-by that others hate, gives me time to catch up on my Netflix shows that I prefer strangers judging me for rather than my roommates...like have you even seen Girl Boss??? I mean...what?

While Seattle's suicidal gray skies and sporadic rain have gone into hibernation, I find myself with little time to actually enjoy the oncoming summer from the tremendous amount of flying I'm doing. From eating my way through Chicago's deep dish pizza to becoming Mormon in Salt Lake City, excitement and adventure meets me at every layover...except Detroit
                                                                                           ...Detroit is where dreams go to die.

 Met a rebellious recliner in Washington

 Pleasurably flicked the magical bean

Looked for White Walkers beyond the wall in Alaska

 Found a crack house in Kansas city

...enough said, Las Vegas

 Met white people in Utah...what a surprise

 Became a 5th wheel in San Francisco

Practiced for the vape olympics in Fort Lauderdale 

Stuffed copious amounts of cocaine up our bums in Puerto Vallarta

Full of excitement and airplane pretzels, I await the wake up call from this wet dream I call my actual career.