As a young partly libertarian, leftist white boy, like many before me, I had big dreams of one day becoming the next big artist. My parents just so happened to be dumb, supportive, and loaded enough to be able to send me to a private liberal arts college out in the west called the California Institute of the Arts. My major would be music. I knew nothing about music, but the idea of becoming a talented multi-instrument pop artist like my idols Brian Wilson and Will Toledo of Car Seat Headrest appealed to me. Finally, the day had arrived, and I took the flight that would change my life! Sadly for me, it also made me the bitter and jaded man I am today. During the middle of one of my multiple flights to California, I ended up in Utah; the plane was delayed for an extended amount of time. I was riding Delta Airlines for this trip. Before this, I thought all the problems I heard about this company were exaggerations, and it turns out that was one of the many things I got wrong about this whole ordeal. I asked someone at the help desk when we were going to leave, "6:30 pm, sir." She said with a little smile at the end, "Fuck, that’s a long time," I thought to myself. Whatever 6:30 fuck it, I can wait. I’m grown. Now keep in mind that this next part looks pretty bad on my part, but I, for most of my life, have been living with autism. It’s not an excuse, but I feel that it can help explain some things about how this conversation went. "Hi, I want to ask when the plane will take passengers and take off; it’s been a while." "It’s going to leave at 8:30 p.m.." "WHAT? Last time you said 6:30?" "I never said that," looking back on it all, saying "fuck you, you lying bitch," and then slapping her probably wasn’t the best idea, especially at that moment since I just realized that this person at the help desk was actually a completely different person from the person I just talked to. I realized I had already messed up and decided to just say fuck it and commit to the bit, so I went to baggage claim and began opening suitcases and throwing shit out of them while yelling fuck you to anyone who crossed my path. Soon, airport security came and grabbed me. I was then thrown out on my ass and told that I had been banned from flying on at least 90 percent of most commercial flights. After screaming and crying in the parking lot for several hours, I decided to go look for a hotel because it was about to get dark. Because it was the only place nearby, I ended up finding a run-down shithole motel, but it was completely booked for the night. My first plan was to simply sleep in the lobby, and it worked for a few minutes. "Sir, the offices are closed. Come back tomorrow, and maybe we'll have a room for you." I know she was just being nice, but it felt like she was telling me to get up in front of the brick wall so the firing squad could kill me. I'd never spent a day homeless before, and I wasn't about to start today, so I went into a big retelling of what happened to me that day, doing my best to leave out all the acts of violence and mental insanity, but even gussied up, the story still sounded crazy. Luckily, there was one person in the building who didn't think I was crazy, and he just so happened to be the owner of the motel. I can still remember the relief on my face when he put his arms around me and said, "Son, let’s make a deal," as if he were a medicine man about to sell me a cure-all for my sister's sickness. I was told that I could have a room if: one, someone was willing to share theirs, and two, I accepted Jesus as my savior as well as the Mormon Church's teachings and attended church with him every Sunday. With no other option on hand, I accepted. I'm fairly religious these days, but attending a Mormon church turned me off of Christ for several years. Don’t get me wrong, I believe any path to Christ is a good path, but I’m sorry, Mormonism is a blatant lie, and anyone who believes in it is a fucking retard. Then, after hearing some nonsense about how badass space Hevean is, I'd go back to my hotel, where the roommates from hell were waiting to help me ruin my day even more. My roommates Two siblings, a boy and a girl, who went urban exploring in search of the "motherload of crazy shit!" The sister was the leader and a bitch to deal with. She refused to give up her semi-comfortable bed because her back was "always sore," so she made me and her brother sleep on the floor. The worst part of the whole experience was that every time he was sleeping, she would "prank" him and then blame the prank on me, which would always be followed by the brother giving me a noogie. It turns out the brother and sister came from a loaded family; if I knew this, I would have sued them for mental and physical damages. After their torment, they would try to talk to me about dumb shit. I think they knew I was weak and decided not to hurt me too much out of respect, but I kind of wish they gave me a reason to sperg out. When I told them about my musical ambitions, they would try to talk about music, but sadly, all they knew was a slew of radio buttrock crap, and it really just brought me to tears how inferior they were to me in terms of musical knowledge. Speaking of music, I was asked to ghostwrite a few songs for a prominent member of the church. Sadly for me, it was all propaganda songs about why gay marriage and abortion should be banned and how, if you disagree, you would end up burning in hell for all eternity. Even though I left my leftist ideals behind, I still feel like making music like that makes me feel uncomfortable and beneath my talents as an artist. The person in question gave me huge David Korsh vibes and was pleasant to be around. After making some simple three chord songs and giving them to Mr. BigShot church man, he would end up playing the songs on YouTube, and one song would gain around a thousand views. He and many of the church members were ecstatic about this and thought this was a ticket to the big time (me, actually being an internet veteran, knew this didn't mean shit) and because of this, the owner decided to put me in a somewhat better hotel. The place was "fancy," but it had its problems. For example, the food and pool were free for me to use, and my room was big, but it wasn't like that was a gift. For example, the food wasn't that great (I can stomach it, but it's not my first choice), the pool was too small for me (it was 5 feet and I'm 6 foot 9), and the room, while nice, didn't have the USA Network, so I couldn't watch Monday Night Raw. In the middle of being in this hellish shithole, I met my one saving grace, a neighbor of sorts, a man who happens to have a career in the music industry. I figured that if I can smooth talk my way into a dangerous cult like the Mormons, then this person would be a piece of cake. We would share stories about my time in the church and how shitty my life was, and he would give me his awesome stories from the industry working for people like Rihanna, Justin Beiber, and Willow Smith. It was safe to say we were becoming the best of friends. Late one night, my friend came back to the hotel with three drunk groupies from a Robin Thicke concert: one was a nice, tasty black, the other was a fat Mexican, and the other was flat and skinny. I looked at him and said, "Looks like you have a varied taste in women," he laughed and looked at me, "nope, just one" (the dude always dropped gems like that on me). While he was walking away, the owner looked at him with an almost disgusted look. I knew then and there he would kick out my only ticket to the big time, so I covered for him. After waking up from a three-hour nap, I spent the majority of the night convincing the owner not to throw out my best friend. A knock on the door came from the man himself, and he decided to give me my first and last job in the music industry. A few blocks down, the great and beautiful Ms. Erykah Badu was conducting a live sit-down interview with Red Bull Academy, and I needed to give her some demos for an album she was recording. I could barely hold in my excitement, and before I left to do the job, I was told something by him that would remain in my mind for the rest of my waking life: "Erykah Badu has a chronic masturbation addiction." Okay... I looked at him for a while, then took the recording and walked down the lobby. I assumed I'd have to walk alone, but it turns out I didn't. As I walked out, I nearly passed out because I would be accompanied by Questlove and Black Thought of The Roots, I was completely shocked to see this as The Roots are considered by many to be one of the greatest rap groups of all time. I decided to strike up a conversation with Black Thought and tell him that Game Theory was one of my favorite rap records of all time, and that his lyrics opened my eyes to the injustices that black people face on a daily basis. I could hear Quest trying to get involved in the back, but I wasn't interested. At the time, I wasn’t familiar with how important his role was in the band, so to me, he was just the drummer in the roots who had a big Afro. We soon entered the building and were greeted by Pharrell Williams. People always talked about how cool Pharrell was, and he could have been, but when I saw this man drinking a Miller Lite at ten in the morning, his arm around what appeared to be some runway model, and him mispronouncing The Roots names (Big Black and Question Mark Man, respectively), Right then and there, I could only shake my head and think to myself, 'Man, this is a guy who can't handle fame.' We were outside the stage near the curtains, Badu was talking about J Dilla, and Questlove told me to just hand the tapes to her while the show was going on and they would play some of it live on air. At this moment, I was on cloud nine. Not only was I going to complete my first job in the music industry, but I would also meet Badu, be on TV, and hear her newest work. The months of being kicked around by the world for no good reason would finally pay off. Well, like everything in life, it was too good to be true, I was on the edge of the stage. "OK, kid," one of the stage hands says, "when I say go, you go out on stage." Just then, Black Thought received a text and looked at me with a disgusted look. He gathered Pharell and Questlove over and they, too, had the same disgusted look. Quest then proceeded to take the demos out of my hand and screamed, "Go to the 4th floor right fucking now." I spent what felt like hours up in a little windowless meeting room; I was sweating, my stomach felt weak, and I was holding back tears over the fact I might never get to meet Erykah. Just then, the 3 musicians all came in with a different shade of pissed off. Before I could explain that I don't know what was going on, Quest gave me a big "hey" to shut me up: "Were you going to tell everyone on live TV that Ms. Badu is addicted to masturbation!?" You're kidding me. Did my friend just backstab me? I tried to explain that wasn't the case but the only thing that didn't sound like gibberish out of my mouth was a simple "no..." "BULLSHIT!" yelled Black Thought, and I was completely broken. "That's not the only thing I found out about you, kid." Questlove would then pull out his phone and play the song I helped write. At this point, all of them were giving me a lecture about how the Mormon church was racist and I was racist by association. I broke down into a blabbering mess of tears and snot at this point, begging them to give them a chance and saying as many "I'm sorry"s as I could. They all looked at me with a singular look was it contempt, or did they actually take pity on me "OK kid, listen, if Ms. Badu accepts your apology, we'll let you exist in this space," I was told. I stood up, and before I could gather my thoughts, the door opened, and I locked eyes with Erykah. Imagine if you will meeting the most beloved woman in the entire earth. Every man who has ever been with her claims her virgina to be more addictive than crack, every woman looks up to her as a symbol of femminity, and every person describes looking into her eyes as an almost religious and cosmic experience. And now imagine the first time you lock eyes with her in front of her biggest "true believers." Your first instinct upon seeing her is to puke your damn guts out. I didn't hear what they said; I didn't even know if they said anything. I just ran. After running this triathlon, what was my prize for such a great performance only to see the hotel I was staying at throw my luggage out the door with a pissed off owner ready to give me another speech about how I was dog shit. Along with the artist, the basterd also told the owner of the hotel about my hatred and displeasure of his religion. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t true, but this time my lies didn't work on him. later in some readneck bar in the middle of nowhere I ended up calling my parents tearfully asking them to come and drive me home and telling them a retelling of a mostly true story for the next few nights I would spend them in an abandoned rv before they came to pick me up. An overall complicated affair, as it turns out, I wasn’t banned from 90 percent of most commercial flights, or any for that matter. Moral of the story, Fuck Delta Airlines.