I took an overnight flight. I splurged and paid $8 for a crappy-brand vodka. I thought it would help knock me out. Not at all!
There is this thing, Aromatherapy. The airlines seem to be tapping into this and I seem to recall a flight a year or so ago where the attendant walked down the aisle spritzing lavender. It was subtle and ridiculous. This year, different airline, it was neither. It was a sickly-sweet odor of indeterminate source that was overpowering and offensive. Maybe something vanilla-ish, were vanilla and crack and TNT and a sledgehammer combined and set free to destroy the human race. In excess it showed up periodically and when I was in full headache mode it showed up finally, as if something had gone terribly wrong, for the last hour of the flight. I held my shirt sleeve over my nostrils in desperate attempt to save myself, but alas, suffering was full and complete.
This is the sort of thing of lawsuits, I both thought and coveted.
Only to arrive into my father's hermetically sealed house, replete with no less than 428 bowls of potpourri, each one as sickly and sweet as the plane's.
People, other people, normal people?, love this shit.
Sugar-free syrup and enough aromatherapy to kill a reasonably-sized horse.
Where did I come from, where did I go wrong, and who are my real parents? Where is my real family?
chapter 3.