Im sitting at a bar in Stockholm airport. I just paid 24 euros for a pulled pork burger...and its worth every penny. Aside from the fact that I havent eaten since before getting on an overnight train in Venice, this is the best burger Ive had since before leaving Hawaii, 7 months ago. There are seven men at the bar. Three of them are bald or balding. Those three are all under forty. My hair has been falling out when I run my hands through it. Too much stress. Im worried. Fully two thirds of the women who have walked by are wearing skin tight leggings. I judge each one. Fully two thirds of them dont belong in skin tight leggings. Im drinking a pint of Boston Lager at an increasing pace. I dont know what time it is, but my flight leaves at 5:30. I feel that I should tip the bartender because she is pretty. Its not fair that men should be under such pressures. Her hair is tinted purple. She gets nothing. Airport staff cruise around on scooters. The kind your eight year old niece ride up and down the drive way on. These are more robust. They must support overweight personnel. I judge them too: performance and speed. They all line up at the starting line in my head, next to the people pushing near empty baggage carts. A curly haired white lady has the pole. Shes determined. I have six currencies on me. Im international. The old man next to me has retired from madly entering data on his iPad. He has a signature appeal. A classy air. An epic beard. He could be a mad scientist. Or the man pulling strings behind operatives in the area. He could be watching movie. Or surveillance footage. He might know that Im writing about him. Its quiet here.
Posted on: Thu, 14 Aug 2014 00:40:13 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015