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"It's aliiiiiiive!"

At first mention of the “Frankenstorm”—or “Frankenstorm’s Monster,” as countless nerds have gleefully interjected—I scoffed, and remembered drunkenly snoring through Hurricane Irene last year after a bottle of wine and half a day spent scouring Midtown Manhattan for a flashlight.

Hangover Irene notwithstanding, with Hurricane Sandy on the way—loudly proclaimed to be even worse than Irene—I headed home to Connecticut to wait it out, whatever it might prove to be. How many times a year do these weather guys say anything relevant? I demanded cynically. Pshhh.

Now, in the wake of Frankenstorm’s Monster, I can’t get back. Eating my words and every h of my Pshhh, it seems I’m trapped outside the city.
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Originally published in the College Voice at Connecticut College.

I don’t care for flying. Short of stopping in the jetway, spread-eagle, like a cat being put into a box, I must admit to at least a few strong reservations. (These are helped little by chatty folks in airport Starbucks airing their dirty “my worst flight” laundry.) From the take-off-your-shoes line at security to the bump of landing gear on asphalt, I would simply rather be elsewhere.

Things start small. At least this is a big plane, I say to myself. It should be a smooth ride. I think to add, JFK, Jr. didn’t die in an Airbus crash.

And the monster reveals itself.
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