I used to be all right about flying. They say children have the most active imaginations, but it wasn’t until reaching my mid-twenties that I was able to envision my own death with such vivid terror. I find now that every time I get on a plane is more excruciating and nerve-wracking than the last. Sixteen hours is a pretty big window of time to allow something–and take your pick of WHAT thing, since there are about a billion choices–to go wrong. And every time I make the trip I’m just increasing my chances, if by only a miniscule amount.

Then there’s been this story. Horrifying. The odds of dying in a plane accident may not be very high, but when you’re the lucky winner, you’re in for one of the most horrible methods of death I can think of. My new assistant at work used to work as a flight attendant, and she was telling me today how it’s not so bad, that if you die in the crash it’s nearly instantaneous. “It’s just like, boom, dead!” she said comfortingly.

Yeah, that’s the instant that the plane crashes. But that doesn’t account for the preceding minute or so of plummeting to your absolute death as the sub-par airline food returns up to your mouth. Even worse is if you somehow manage to survive the initial impact but then find yourself in the middle of the Pacific ocean, either drowning or floating hopelessly until you starve to death or get eaten by something.

How do people who fly a lot fly so much?

And on that note, I always thought teleportation was the substitute for me, but then a couple weeks ago I saw The Fly. Holy shit.