OHAI. Here’s the exhausted and cranky version of J-Money sitting in the Philadelphia airport scowling at the pair of kids jump roping through the crowded gate area. I took a rope to the earhole a few minutes ago and had to resist the urge to shove a ten year old boy back into his mother’s birth canal.
Since then, I’ve done nothing but give them my most withering expressions and—while I wouldn’t mind a mishap—I’d settle for a West Side Story-style turf war between the rope-skippers and the other kids wearing those roller skate shoes.
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Also, here’s a long distance dedication to the woman across from me. Tights are not meant to be worn as pants, EVEN IF you have a Louis Vuitton bag the size of my car trunk and insist on using the word “Ciao” to end each of the seventeen iPhone conversations you’ve had since I started nomming this Villa Italia pepperoni-slathered grease mattress.
Granted, I will be wearing a pair of unaccompanied tights on Monday but I’ll also be running twenty six (point two) miles. I win. Ciao.
