You know how you can sometimes tell a person's car from their personality? In my experience I find you will only have success with certain types of people, but when you meet one such person you will be so struck by the resemblance of car to human being that you float thereafter in this strange dematerialised state where every human has a corresponding car, and that person's choice of car is paramount to their grown and achieving self-actualisation. Do you remember where you were as a kid when you first realised that different kinds of people drove different cars? It is such an important lesson that i'm sure any official first realisation would disappoint you. These days the parents are desperate for their kids to learn this lesson so that they shut up and sit silently in some sort of reverence. Some guy realised one day that TV is the only thing in which kids will sit quietly in front of and invented headrest TV. From then on, their kids were enchanted with the things that really had only become enchanting because of adding TV to them. So enchanted that they never spoke of it, but simply understood. Cars with TVs in them are way better than cars absent of TVs entirely. Who wants to be bored when Spongebob is on all damn day.

Returning to the paramount aim of humanity. It is one of two things: Finding a car that perfectly suits your personality, or using your car to define your personality. It's this strange chimerical hybridisation of car and human. You might not realise at the time that you are being moved in a direction that is infact, 'wrong', or simply one on which you hadn't planned on being. I am quite simply astounded by the fact that these walkways are not used more extensively. You could imagine one carrying a certain high class of graduates up to the clouds on the steepest incline imaginable, as steep as Everest, and them just standing there disenchantedly, like they were glued to it.

Those moving walkway, the purpose of which is essentially the same as the plane you are catching, as well as the taxi you have signalled down before you've even landed. You 'voluntarily' leave your arm up in vague hope it will impart a threatening message to fellow passengers--that you will not be beaten to the first taxicab. 'Not in this city, sister'. The agressive commuter dimeanour will not work to your favour; you will recieve your baggage in order, and of this order you may never truely know. It is an order that knows to plant drugs in the bag that looks the most granola, and one we have all at least once imagined, especially if we happen to have had china or glass, or god forbid, a bottle of wine, in our bags. The image is one of pure mirth, like they're making it a competition who can be the most negligent with customers' bags. Fucking bag people, throwing around my bag and screaming boy howdy when they hear something break.

There is no formal order, or if there is, it's probably better to just presume there isn't so that you may successfuly dam the rivers of rage that will spill onto the buffed marble airport floor when you happen to be one of people left waiting for their bag at the carousel for longer than fifteen minutes. Or if you're a melancholic person, you might haplessly wonder what you have done to anger the baggage arbitrator so. There has been a misdeed or a transgressive act, of this everyone is agreed. But how far back are we talking? And who is it that get's to decide how far back we're talking, anyway? We are all that person at one time or another, as though this was some great philosophical statement--nobody gets through life without their bag being one of the last ones out of the carosel. To wear a grimace while everyone else goes to the terminal McDonalds to spend quality time WITH the grimace. whose bag was at the very back, unimaginably confined (you start to moralise as thoughit were a living thing and not just a capsule for storing your travel possessions. To passers by who are in no mood to hear it, they exclaim how I will not be getting into the first taxi on the rank, so that I may sit comfortably for the next half hour as though you were paying for your transport in the form of not standing up.