What titles may come (with apologies to David Mitchell)

Have spent the past week or so in Bangalore. I was of course supposed to arrive here much earlier (the previous Tuesday, as a m.o.f.), but flight delays and uncooperative ticket agents conspired to ensure a protracted and rather harrowing journey. In fact, it is about the events surrounding the journey that this post is about.

Or perhaps not. To tell stories at this point would be anticlimactic; after all, we have come through, we have shone. The consternation that engulfed us when confronted with oppression has departed, leaving in its place a feeble impression of victory over circumstances, and a mistaken conflation of action with result. We have come apart at the seams and then reified ourselves, we cry. Is not this after all proof that we are masters of our own pliable destinies? That we can hold in submission, through assiduity and willpower, the selfsame ties that appear to bind us? Surely the transpiration of such a sequence of testing events with a satisfying, protagonist-affirming conclusion will show to any healthy skeptic the irrefutable proof of the non-existence of God, or even god; we need no divine mediation to perpetuate ourselves through our fraught existences. Our egos will suff--

I'm sorry about my friend. He looks like a philosopher. I remember in school when he used to win arguments with people by flooding them with big-big sentence constructions. Bored me like anything. See even here he is showing his stunts without telling what he is talking about. Anyway leave him. The story goes like this -- I was supposed to leave Austin on a Sunday morning, but the travel agent was not available on Sundays, and Sri Lankan airlines was also....no, wait...I went to the airport and that ticket-agent-wallah was so rude! He told me I had no reservation and then I had to call my uncle and then my mobile phone was going out of charge -- actually that was later, no? -- yeah, correct -- So first I --

Dude. Seriously. That was stupid. The problem with him is that he's just not with it, you know? I mean, seriously, who adds 'no' at the end of questions? That is so 20th century. Anyway at Chicago airport there was this totally cute chick with this lame dude. I mean, literally lame! He was going around on one of those gross wheelchairs and looked like fucking Stephen Hawking, man. They went in to one of those handicapped bathrooms. I bet they totally did it in there. I'd pretend be handicapped too if it gets me a d-cup. Anyway so there was this Chinese dude who was right next to me asking me if I was on the Frankfurt flight too. Like I'd tell him! What if he flicks my passport or something! Whatever. The ticket-agent chick was so ugh I went like call 911! We need an emergency plastic surgery! She was like so staring right at me ---

Please stop. You are nauseating me. Please ignore my friends above. They don't really mean anything they --