i don't know when i noticed life was life at my expense

Dear Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport Transportation Security Administration Employees:

I truly appreciate the fact that you have millions or at least thousands upon thousands of travelers come through security each and every day. Truly. I can empathize with the sheer stupidity of people who, after standing in the long line that had several TV sets loudly announcing the rules about traveling with 3 ounce containers or smaller of liquids, packed separately in a quart-sized Ziploc bag, put through security separately, still, somehow, have giant bottles of shampoo with them, amidst their carry-on luggage, imperiously demanding that you personally provide them with a Ziploc bag, thinking they could put the liquids that do not fit into said bag into their carry-on anyway, and who the fuck needs to travel with a gallon of perfume, people?

I hate them even more than you do. Really.

However.

Would it be possible for you to have a separate line, something like, Line for People Who Literally Just Discovered They Had Their Favorite Monthly Visitor and Who Are Totally Unprepared for Said Visitor and Need a Restroom Absolutely Positively Immediately?

'Cuz, I have to say, NOT letting me out of line after I got in, making me stand in the extra long line was one thing. But the guy who waved me through the x-ray machine who stared at my now-bloody crotch, ever largening pool of blood running down the legs of my jeans like I'm in 8th grade math class sitting next to The Boy I'm Currently Crushing On and wearing white pants and OMG can you BELIEVE it? I was SOOO embarrassed!!!! and it's really not my style now that I'm 32 years old and mock openly said 8th grade math class girls, well, that's just umm. So LAME. Would it really have hurt to let me out? And THEN to not let me to the closest restroom, but force me to go on the train to the A ("as in Ascot") concourse, wade through the dumbasses who stand at the top of the fucking escalator and, mouths agape, look around for the baggage claim (it isn't fucking here, douche), to force my jeans to be utterly ruined, to force me to endure more 8th grade math girl embarrassment, well, you suck.

You just plain suck.

This time, I was lucky. This time, I had two brand new suits, purchased from Bloomingdales just today, with me. I was able to change in the restroom and pretend like I had come to the airport in this suit. But this all could have been avoided had you some common decency and caring.

PS. To the ignorant bitch in the airport waiting area: Puerto Rico is NOT part of Spain. It is not "totally freaky weird" that it's "like America, only in Spanish!", nor that Puerto Rico's currency is the dollar.

PPS. To the total bitch in front of me on the airplane: You know when you put the seat way the fuck far back, and it wouldn't go further, and you kept BOUNCING to make it go further back? That was my knee.

PPPS. To the cab driver who drove me home from the airport: Please, for the love of FSM, PLEASE learn how to drive.

PPPPS. To all cab drivers in DC: I don't believe it's my job to tell you how to get to my house. Address? Sure. Closest major intersection? No problem. Telling you that the best way is to go up 12th Street, turn right on Vermont, left on Florida, right on Sherman, right on Harvard, and right on Georgia? Why do I have to do this every single fucking week? What would you do if some other person I knew came to visit me and had never been to DC before?