65. Needle on a Tarmac

I’m not particularly fond of airports. Burbank has a jolly old time buying overpriced crisps and chatting up strangers from other parts of the world. But me? I’m not terribly social, am I? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m a xenophobe.

We flew into Paris this morning. I cut my hand open on the metal rail of the jet bridge when we were boarding. There was so much blood, I almost passed out, but the flight attendant took me to the bathroom and washed out the wound to keep me from fainting. The nice old lady sitting next to me stitched me up with her travel sewing kit. It was a plastic needle though because they wouldn’t let the old broad on the plane with a metal one. Like she’s some kind of terrorist! I’ll tell you who’s a terrorist—whoever did such a shoddy job filing down the edges of that damn railing!