Graocracy is a government ran by old women.

NOTE: This is an excerpt from a short story I'm writing called "Duality in Decatur." When I say I'm writing a short story I really mean I'm not writing at all because I'm a lazy unmotivated idiot.

I never really liked airports. That morning I made myself a delicious mix of Vodka and grape fanta. I poured it into a vitamin water bottle, a truly clever disguise . I had hoped to drink it on the plane, making the trip go a little faster and giving me the bragging rights to say I'd been drunk in the clouds. Unfortunately due to mass paranoia caused by propaganda, you are no longer able to have liquids in carry on luggage.
“Is this your bag, sir?” The bored looking women asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded. I hated being called “sir”. There are two types of people who get called sir; people with money or people who are in trouble. Examples “Why yes sir, right away.” or “Sir, we are going to ask you to come with us.” The last time I was called “sir” was by the manager of Hooters who apparently was fed up with me hitting on a waitress. So you can name the restaurant after tits but you can't talk about them? What utter bull shit.
“I'm sorry but you cant take this on the plane.” The women said holding up my bottle.
“It's only water.” I lied. I must have sounded like a guilty child because the women shot me a face that screamed “Nigga, you a lie.”
“Whatever the case, liquids aren’t allowed on the plane. You can either drink it here or I'll throw it away for you.”
No way was I leaving my drink with this women. “I'll finish it here.” I said as I reached for bottle. The woman hesitated then with a roll of her eyes she handed me the beverage. I open the lid and it let out a strange hiss. I brought the bottle to my lips for the first gulp but the smell hit me and made me rethink downing this diabolical concoction. The scent was so strong it felt like thumb tacks were lodged in my nostrils. I noticed the women still looking at me with a half smirk that seemed to taunt me.
“Dragon Berry, my favorite.” I sarcastically muttered as I swallow a huge gulp that chills my soul. I imagine my teeth screaming and wanting to jump out of my head to escape the next wave. But there is no exit or getaway for my molars as I quickly chase the first gulp with a slightly smaller one. I glance at the women.
“50 Cent really knows how to make great water.” I smile and she snarls and walks away to harass more people. I sit on a bench to get my shoes back on and finish the drink. I really suck at making mixed drinks but it's ok. Drinking is my vice and vices shouldn’t be pleasant. Well, except for masturbation but if I drank as much as I jerked off I'd, Well frankly I'd be dead.
As I tie my shoes I look at the long line behind me, all shoe less and shuffling across the dirty , cold floor through an array of metal detectors while a few feet away complete strangers look through their luggage. I guess they are looking for weapons, but they never really say, and what’s worse is people never ask. They seem to be ok with having there personal property ran sacked by random jerks in blue polos and name tags. Don't get me wrong, safety is rad. But what type of freaky weapon could I have in my shoes. In my shoes there are feet and in my luggage there is underwear and assorted mini soaps. No bombs.
I finish the bat piss and I'm pretty drunk, 8 on a 10 scale. But I'm no stranger to day time inebriation so I tough it out and find my gate. My dislike for airports quickly turns to a spit shined hatred as I look around this backwards place. Airports are dens of papable anxiety. The irritability and confusion bounce off people like a pin ball, you are given an annoyed look by some jet lagged Texan, souring your attitude, leading you to glare at the woman who stop in the mid stride to knell over a tie her shoe . She is pissed off by your impatience and carries her negative attitude over to her traveling companions who are seemly blindsided by her snubbed disposition causing one of her associates to whisper in the ear of another; “Susan is really being a bitch.”
In airports there are food courts, but these food courts differ from food courts in shopping malls or plazas in one major way. In shopping malls there are upwards of 35 seats per restaurant, meaning when you get your $5.37 slice of grease soaked Sbarro pizza or your cat meat sesame chicken from Panda Express you have ample seating present to plop down on and enjoy the suicidal yet intensely gratifying ritual of eating fast food. In airports there are more restaurants yet less seating, resulting in a barbaric feeding frenzy in which normally dignified patrons are turned into ravenous primitives as they hunch over in corners and corridors stuffing their faces. All racing to finish their food before boarding the plane as to avoid being the ass face who brings food on board and stinks the place up like a high school cafeteria. Crumbs and sauces and whole lettuce leafs drenched in ranch and vinegar stain shirts and fall to the floor. In airports, sterility is a myth. The human body is a wondrous collection bags and enzymes and it knows that the over processed shit sold to us in food courts is toxic so within a few hours we begin to flush it out. It is natures joke that while our bodies decompose and dispel the toxins, we sit miles off the ground in the plane. Airplane are outfitted with a single bathroom toward the back of the plane, in order to get to it you have to squeeze past the perfect strangers you share an isle with and walk past the judgmental eyes of everyone seated behind you. Most people are too demure or just uncomfortable with the idea of pooping of an aircraft so they sit their seats as their insides bubble and spurt and fume, sure they keep relatively straight faces but inside their bodies there is catastrophe.
I find my boarding gate with around 35 minutes to spare. I sit down with my luggage in front of me and throw my head back. Now I can tell you where I was going, but the “why” is slightly harder to answer. I was going to Atlanta, Decatur to be exact. Earlier in the year I made good friends with a kid named Louis who was good friends with a girl named Elsa. Louis went to my college, and Elsa was visiting him for a few months. They were both from Atlanta. Elsa became smitten with me, but I was too busy discovering the subtle joys of booze and working with a now disbanded comedy troupe. Or, rather I noticed just never made any moves.


But this isn’t the story of airportssssssssssssszzszzzzzcxzxwere

Them mean bastards anit they…