Poor me.

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Here’s a picture of me waiting to pick up my passport.  As you might be able to see, I was full of The Whine.  This was day two of getting up at an hour that I’m not I’m not exaggerating when I call ungodly.  I actually think God disapproves of four am.  And driving to LA.  LA, the only place on earth you can hit traffic before the sun rises.  Two days of the most creative arrangement of lines, and one very persistant and well-dressed crazy man who kept wanting to lay hands on me and pray.  (I told him only men significantly more or significantly less religious are allowed to do that.)  Airport-like security checks at a door I was required to go in and out of repeatedly to find the next line to stand in.

Bethany came home from work to find me sprawled out on the couch, and as she set down her briefcase and gym bag she listened to my tale of first world woe.  She offered to get me a beer and then made me mac and cheese.  And it struck me how fucking spoiled I am.

There are people waiting days in line for food, instead of a passport, and arguably one of the most coveted types of passports.  There are so many people without the time or resources to travel.  And very few people have a sister in law who’d baby them after a long day at work.

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