Oh shit.
My flight was canceled because of extreme heat in Little Rock. A runway buckled? I am not exactly sure where Little Rock is. Arkansas, right? I don’t understand how a runway in Arkansas can make me not fly in Chicago, but that’s what happened, Aleah.
Stranded. Sort of.
I’m sort of freaking out.
Eyeballs hurt.
Me. I have to make a choice: stay in Chicago overnight to get the next direct flight into Fort Myers or fly to Atlanta, which might get me to Atlanta with enough time to connect to Fort Myers—or it might not, because I’d have about three minutes to get off the plane and run to the other plane, which I would be happy to do, except I know it took me forever to get the sausages to ask a bagel lady for directions to find my gate here and I’m sort of not feeling that great right now, Aleah.
Stay overnight in Chicago?
There’s a hotel right here, but I only have that money from Jerri. If pasty fettuccine Alfredo costs like twenty bucks (that’s what it cost!), won’t a hotel room cost like $500 or something? I could ask. I should ask. Maybe I’ll ask.
I’ll call Jerri and ask her.
Jerri isn’t answering the phone. You know why, Aleah? She’s probably off in the woods some place making out with your freaking dad. Why won’t she carry a damn cell phone?
Okay…I just have to ask somebody about something because I don’t really want to stay here, but I don’t want to go to Atlanta. I’ve been to Atlanta, with Gus, and it is too hot there for anyone to survive.
Why am I writing you when I should be gathering pertinent information?
Because I don’t know who to ask.