• "Passengers, you may now unbuckle your seat belts and are free to move about the cabin."

    The little light blinks off above each and every passenger. "Great," I mumble to myself, flipping the buckle on the belt that's supposed to save me in case of a horrific crash into the continental U.S. I'm sitting by the window (there must be a God), looking down on the few spots of light I see. It's a late-night flight. My eye may or may not look red, but who's going to say anything at this hour? Airport workers, they don't care why a 19 year old girl is buying a flight to Tennessee with crumpled bills at this hour, without a soul to see her off. The process is much like a drug deal. You've got the cash, they've got you a ticket to here, there, and everywhere. Drug deal or not, you'll be flying high in no time. And guess what-nobody else gives a ********.

    Reminding myself of my destination, a chuckle escapes my lips, as an old Dixie Chicks song pops into my head. "Goodbye Earl" had a line about a red-eyed midnight flight. I'm always making little references to s**t like this. Don't think I've even listened to them since middle school. People are still bitching and moaning about their words against the war. George Bush is a moron, anyway. Can't understand why anyone wouldn't just high five those girls then have a good laugh at their presidential primate. I need to get this song out of my head. Now.

    For the first time, I get a good look around the plane and covertly check out my surroundings. It's relatively empty, compared to other flights I've been on before. In 21B, to my right, there's a woman that looks like a Barbie doll on an Avon-induced high. Pink dress suit, tweed I think. Nice stilettos and news anchorwoman hair in perfect platinum. Too much red lipstick in my opinion; mad her teeth ******** glow. Bet she was pulling in a shitload on her paycheck and had a lawyer husband at home. Or maybe a neurosurgeon, or a stock broker. Hell, if she's got a man like that at home, the only job that b***h has is to be at the spa on time. If she was a mother, then plastic surgery had to have fixed any figure imperfections related to motherhood. Her legs are crossed and she's tapping away to some internal rhythm with a s**t-eating grin plastered across her tan Botoxed face. I scoff a little to myself, and wonder what kind of drugs this woman's on to be seated back here in coach on a flight like this. We all have our stories though, right? Just between you and me, I'm debating scandalous affairs and laid back tennis matches.

    Time to inspect the other passengers around me. Your typical cowboy in his early 40's, trying to conceal his chewing tobacco and spit cup (we are flying out from Texas, after all), a nice-looking young guy maybe a few years my senior, immersed in what looks like a sci-fi novel. A few rows back I see a middle aged woman, already asleep with her glasses sliding down her nose. I swear I can hear snoring over the hum of the plane. Sitting next to her is her husband, I guess. Balding up top, with an eagle-like facial structure, he's absorbed in a thick page-turner. Wonder why they're on a plane at this hour of the night, or is it morning now? I take a quick glance at my phone, airplane mode: 12:14 am. A sigh escapes my lips and my head sinks back into the hard cushion of the seat. Screw people-watching, no one else nearby has their overhead light on except the cowboy in 20B. I glance back, Harvey Birdman has his on too. That's got to be what, 23D? Maybe 24D, but what's it to me?

    The blonde b***h next to me suddenly turns to me as if I appeared out of thin air. She flashes an award-winning smile and offers her right hand in a friendly manner. The kind of way job employers do. Smug. Powerful. Bored. You guessed it, there's a rock the size of India shining in the dim light. I can't decide which is shining brighter, the gem or her mega-watt grin. Hesitantly, I reach out to shake her hand. It's about now that I'm wishing I'd have thought to wash the dried blood off my hands. She surprises me with an iron grip and a firm jerk of the hand. I notice her eyes fall to my cold, clammy hand and the corners of her mouth twitch slightly, but the smile doesn't falter a bit. God, I'm just waiting for her to ask about the blood. The woman drops the ear-to-ear grin along with her hand, but keeps a polite smile in it's wake. The b***h is gaping like a ******** guppy now. s**t. Image clean-up time,

    I chuckle, "Don't worry ma'am, I'm not a murderer. Just had a bit of a nosebleed earlier. Guess I didn't notice that some got on my hand." I glance up through my hair and give the rich b***h an "apologetic" smile. The ******** b***h buys it and starts going on about one thing, and then another. My eyes stay planted on her like I give a s**t about some monster of a nosebleed her nephew had, but I'm so far gone right now, it's not even funny. Another good thing about night flights, it's dark as Satan's heart the whole plane ride. Even better: most fliers are asleep. Notice that I said most. This b***h just won't shut the ******** up, and here I am, making her think I'm listening. Is my silence and absent-minded nodding prodding her to talk even more? All I'm hearing is well, nothing really. I'm so far out-of-body right now, I don't know where the ******** I went. The droning stops abruptly, shaking me from my little trance.

    "Well?" the woman asks, obviously expecting an answer of some sort. ******** a, I don't know what the Hell she's talking about.

    "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch the question. My ears are starting to pop." I rub my ears and move my jaw a bit for emphasis. Either this b***h is dense, or she just likes the sound of her own voice, but she laughs a little too loudly and repeats the question.

    Here's the deal: I find it amusing when someone asks me the same dull question with that typical plastic grin, "What do you want to do with your life?" It's a conversation-starter, just something to break the ice and dull the edges. Allow me to let you in on a little secret: people don't give a ********. They don't really care, unless you plan on becoming rich and famous. Yeah, sure, they'll laugh now, but 20 years down the road, they're clamoring to kiss your a** on MTV. Again, "What do you want to do with your life?" I hate the question with a passion. There they are, putting you on the spot, and they don't even give a ******** about you and your so-called future. Thanks for the cold sweat, a*****e. You could always tell them you're not sure, that you're keeping your options open for a while longer. Looking for something more than just a nice job, a spouse, good home, maybe a few kids and a Labrador in the white picket fenced-in yard for the sake of the American ******** Dream. Why settle for everyone else's dream? Why pick up the same hopes and goals of our founding fathers and their great, great grandkids? I hate Labradors anyway; too ******** loud. Anyway, this interrogator might just keep pestering, trying to feign interest in your boring little life, light years away from their own. Same damn question: "What do you want to do with your life?" Like a school counselor trying in vain to rip her eyes from the clock. Nobody wants to know the answer to that question. Rarely will you ever hear it though; people like to come across as nice, you see? The blonde b***h sitting beside me won't give a rat's a** about me once this plane touches down.

    She raises her perfectly arched eyebrows inquisitively. I can't help but think about the plane scene in Fight Club. Seems she's going above and beyond for a single serving friend. Gotta love self-assured bitches like this. I debate whether I'm going to tell her my real plan in life, or if I'm feeding her the usual bullshit line about being a nursing assistant. Maybe I'll ******** with her a little bit and recite some wild story. ********, it might make her shut up.