I am sitting in 1C, waiting for the thrust of the Rolls Royce engines to propel me forward. I firmly clutch the faded gray, faux leather armrest with my left hand, revealing blue veins through now white clenched fingers. As the whir of the engines begins to purr, the miniature Dasani water bottle bounces around happily as the underbelly of the jumbo jet licks at the runway, like a schoolgirl in a plaid skirt licks a Tootsie Pop, with precision. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rubber meets the road. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rubber meets the expansion joints of the cracked concrete slabs, cracked from the weight of all of these obese passengers struggling to fit into this tin can, like packaged sardines, wrapped and delivered for a holiday feast:

Cotton candy clouds.
Sleight of hand from magicians.
Sugary delight.