So you found yourself stranded at the bustling Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, huh? Your airline was kind enough to provide you with a meal voucher, otherwise known as the most worthless piece of cardstock to ever grace your palms. The voucher is worth an entire $7, and as you stroll through DFW at 2:00am, you realize that unless you want to chew on a bathroom tile, that voucher is going to get you exactly nothing to eat because everything is closed tighter than a nun’s muff.
As you search a quiet corner to rest your head that is devoid of red-shirted, heavily tattooed creeps who are experiencing a seeming drug-induced angst, you realize that your options are few. You can squeeze your body into a square the size of a runway model’s ass; lay on the swirly, mystery stain-laden blue carpet set atop concrete; or walk around in an effort to keep yourself awake until your replacement flight leaves six hours later. Staying the night in the airport is always a choose your own adventure full of impossible endings. It doesn’t matter which one of these paths you decide to take a chance on. Facts are facts, and any way you slice the cookie dough, you’re screwed.
Let’s say you find a corner that is in fact devoid of angsty creeps that will murder you as you dream of your Sleep Number bed. You set yourself up with a sterilized fuzzy blanket and your XpresSpa neck pillow swag. You toss your ankles up on the chairs in front of you and situate that neck pillow around your neck like a giant hug around the spine, and you drift off to sleep. You begin to snore lightly, like a baby beaver dreaming of chewing some wood. Every time you reach the coveted REM, a tile polisher man thingiemebob drives by, piloted by a curly headed man with a partially toothed grin. Your nightmares have begun, you have entered the seventh ring of hell. There’s no way out. You die.
You run back to the part in this choose your own adventure where you get to choose your fate, and you instead decide to lay on the swirly, mystery stain-laden blue carpet set atop concrete, but first you must find an area that doesn’t have a sticky white film resting atop the pile, or a gum-sculpture smashed artfully into the swirls of blue. You realize as you settle your cheek onto a rogue bagel crumb and smell the soles of a million shoes, that you’ve got to figure something else out. Your realization drives you further into the dead, lifeless airport where you pass a dashing young man in lime green shoes and a beige cashmere sweater. He glances your way but your hair is flat from the day of travel, your eyeliner is smeared across your nose, and your skin looks dead. Like the way your soul has been left feeling after the travel mishaps of the day. (because seriously? how long does it take to change an airplane tire?) You spy a pile of cots and nearly weep with excitement. Your quest for sleep is now complete. Your travel companion sets a cot up for you and as you go to rest your bum upon the glorious grey canvas, you spy a canvas that has been painted with the bodily fluids of three hundred people before you. The new blankets you found are perfect to cover this delightfully stained cot and you lie down and drift off to sleep, dreaming of cinnabons and soft beds. As you reach REM, someone observes that your things have been left to defend themselves as you rest your weary eyes. Your carry on bag which holds your entire livelihood, and your purse which holds the key to your pitiful bank account falls prey to this airport cat burglar. When you wake up, you realize that your things are missing and you spontaneously combust into a massive set of flames that engulfs the entire airport. You die.
No, this can’t be right so flip back to choose the last ending and you choose to walk around in an effort to keep yourself awake while waiting for a donut or coffee shop to open so that you can stuff your everloving face full of greasy, sugary yeast and gluten. You walk directly into a construction zone and get run over by the bat-out-of-hell golf cart for disabled people. You didn’t even get to dream! You die. Game over.
In real life, you sit down to write about your experiences in an attempt to laugh about it later, because certainly in some alternate reality, this is the most humorous thing you’ve ever experienced. Then you thank God you’re with friends and the fact that they’re as deliriously screwed as you are.