I love airplane blankets. I don’t have Travoltian levels of aerophilia, but I do like to crack open a fresh plastic pouch to find an uncontaminated spread of fleece within. Back when I was shuttling to and fro from the east coast during my college dayz, I would often leave flights to later discover an airplane blanket clinging to the static dynamo that is my a$$. And so a collection blossomed.

I’ve been doing some intensive closet purging for my bi-yearly “I accidentally watched the domestic rat Hoarders episode again” ritual. I dug up this article from last year, all crumpled and forgotten in the detritus–it’s an unfinished airplane blanket that I had started to feverishly garnish with sewn sequins but then quickly abandoned.  Sorry! It was taking up all my hours after work and getting really clingy. Then it cried after sex once and I was like queen, PLEASE, we’ve been doing this for like FOUR DAYS.

Sewing is the shrunken, shriveled kumquat in the garden of my life skills. It’s not an ideal hobby for me because I have no patience to have patience. However I do like the shiny scissors and aura of archetypal femalehood that seem to be involved with stitching….it gets my clumsy fingers humming just thinking about it. So this airplane blanket has been resurrected.  I’ve been aching to poke something, so we’ll see if my bumbling claws can get the job done.

It’s supposed to say “I Stole This”