The Airport./The drive from Jacksonville International Airport to Gainesville, Florida.

Norfolk International Airport

I am so poor that I have to take ridiculous, round-about flights across the United States to get anywhere. I take cheap, airlines that have jokes built into the pilot's script:"Whoa, Nelly" every time the plane lands. I do not get free drinks, I do not get to carry on luggage. I usually do not have seats on flights. I usually spend hours in airports, along with the saddest people. Right now I'm stuck in a two-hour layover in Regan National Airport. I waited in the longest line possible for shitty mexican food because, well, I had the time.  And my life has stopped here, in the airport, where I just get sadder and sadder by the minute. 

My dining companions, Reagan National Airport.

The drive from Jacksonville, Florida to Gainesville, Florida is an hour and a half of speed traps, four gas stations, no light and I think around 20 minutes into the drive, no hope. If you have something to go home to, you are bound to get a hundred tickets in the speed traps that rise up from oblivion. You have to go 25 miles an hour for 10 miles for a town that is two blocks long. I think I'm slowing down for a town that is really just a Sonic, and, I guess, for the people who come out of Sonic. They all belong on my windshield, every one of them, they should all feel the mighty wrath of my car's grill. 

 There needs to be an airport cab/prostitution service. Having someone to pick you up from the airport is the ultimate test of loneliness . If you are alone, like, say, most people, you can fake being a functional human up to a certain point. That point is the airport, specifically at the arrival terminal, when you haul all your shit to the parking garage, pay an astronomical fee of freeing your car from the lot (just in case you didn't hate everyone and everything enough) and drive the terrible drive to your home, where there is nothing waiting for you. I propose you call a number, pick an escort (I'd like to request anyone who looks like Sam Elliot in Roadhouse, please), and have them pick you up in a car, drive you back to your apartment, fuck you senseless, leave, and bill you in a month, after you are over all the humiliation of flying. 

Can't decide on a name. Air hookers? Fuck and Ride? Help me out here, people. We could make billions. 

These are some airport prostitutes from Philadelphia. They are not really my type.

Rather than have access to this service, I am instead going to go home, buy an incredible amount of alcohol, and watch the music video for Heartbreaker until I pass out. 'Cause I just love everything Jay say, Jay does. Huh. Ha.