When you feel as though you've been wronged, even under the most arbitrary of circumstances, a few things tend to happen.
First, you feel trapped. Maybe you're stuck in your head, or maybe you're lost in the underbelly of Gatwick Airport's South Terminal. Maybe you've come to find yourself in a queue to speak with a customer service representative, and maybe you've realized you have no idea how you got there. The space you occupy, whether it's real or imagined, is getting bigger and bigger and bigger. You're bound to have a little difficulty finding the exit, even though the woman in the scarf and the stewardess hat who was sent to escort you out is pointing right towards it. Second, you feel entitled. You're entitled to address the airline steward at your gate as "dude" as many times as you'd like, no matter how fancy he looks in his little vest and bow tie. You're entitled to take up four seats on the train home, even though you have exactly two bags and one body. You're entitled to use cellular data to download some stupid iPhone app and place a call to the US Embassy, despite it costing approximately half your dad's last paycheck due to data roaming fees. And, most importantly, you're entitled to a pint at 11:30 AM. Someone has affected you emotionally. The sky's the limit, kiddo. Finally, you feel completely responsible for ruining your own situation and, simultaneously, utterly helpless in orchestrating its reconstruction. "It's the passenger's job to communicate with their final destination," the steward tells you. "You must go back to London to sort this out immediately." With this big ol' burden of responsibility sitting on your slouchy 20-year-old shoulders, it's impossible to resist pointing fingers at anyone who looks authoritative enough to deserve it. Unfortunately, these situations tend to make your eyes watery and your voice trembly, so "righteous finger pointing" often turns into "halfhearted squeaking." "Why wasn't this information provided on the website?" you quaver to anyone who'll listen. "Whom do I contact to make an enquiry?" The answer, if any response even qualifies as an answer, changes every time. It's Thursday, November 12th, and God knows I'm not getting to Barcelona anytime soon.
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