Remember the time you were flying in a hot air balloon? You wore jeans so no one could see up your shorts. You put on a ball cap so it would burn up first before the blaze sizzled your hair. You even chose your memory foam sneakers just in case you had to jump. Remember? You brought the friend you most wanted to take to heaven with you. Just in case things went wrong. You climbed into the basket. You felt like a picnic lunch. You wished you had a giant ziploc bag that you could crawl inside so you could be a real sandwich. Did you identify as turkey or roast beef? You wondered what creature would eat you if you fell to your death and became a street pizza. Remember? The hot air balloonist wore a plaid shirt and had an underbite. You were certain he would have worn his overalls if they had been clean that day. You wondered if he had to go to balloonist school to be certified for this trade. You looked around the picnic basket, then up inside the billowing balloon, searching for his framed credentials. Nothing. You were sure you were going to die. But you couldn’t jump out. Too far above earth now. Your friend beamed as the wind blew her long, wavy hair back. Even the balloonist looked free, chewing his toothpick even more joyfully. Remember? You were grateful that the parking lot launch pad had a blue porta-potty at the back corner. You wished it was in the picnic basket with you. Had a sandwich ever needed a restroom? Finally you landed on the pavement. Only a few little lurches. You were alive!! But as you stepped off, you fell into a pothole. And died. Should’ve called Hoover Asphalt Repair.