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Disguised As Love

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Here I am, on an airplane.

I’ve been flying throughout this pandemic, and haven’t really been worried about catching anything.

Until now.

Am I concerned about the guy across the aisle who’s hammered on bourbon, mask hanging off his ear, sneezing all over the people in front of him?

Nah.

How about the sludge on the underside of the tray table?

Not really.

I’m scared I’m going to get infected by what might be lurking in these pamphlets and newsletters, hidden in the inflight guides, the seat back pockets, and other opportune places down the entire row.

Why be scared, though, when I’ve already learned so much? I now know that if you’re a woman, your place is in the home, where your sole contribution, not even primary… sole… is raising godly children. Because that’s where your true gift and talent lies, you know. And if you don’t know, there’s a number you can call, because apparently they know, and they’ll be happy to tell you, and also take your contribution for their work to save marriages between same-race men and women.

See, I also discovered that gay people are bad. Who knew? And they’re the worst parents, if you ask God. Which I haven’t, so I’m stoked someone did for me, which I just read about in this literature.

There’s so much more I could tell you, but we’re about to land.

Here I am, on an airplane.

Where overreaching arms in the name of #staysafe can do nothing against perhaps a more lethal threat, immune to a vaccine, impervious to antibacterial wipes, and undeterred by a mask.

Hate, disguised as love.

 

Photo by Jakob Rosen on Unsplash   

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