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Sometimes the TSA Just Needs a Laugh

I probably don’t have a prayer of traveling normally for the rest of my life.

You should see me just trying to get through security. The TSA doesn’t know what to do with me. They *always* have to go through my case after the x-Ray and inevitably make the same “are you fucking serious?” Face before they burst out laughing and go through the whole thing.

I just tack on an extra 30 minutes to all air travel to make room for this now procedural interaction. I’m not sure what they’re expecting to find, but it’s never what they end up seeing. They’re always suspicious and then happily surprised.

Like, what did you think I was carrying? Crochet dolls filled with drugs? Am I a yarn terrorist?

But it always ends the same way: them cracking up and calling over their friends to check out all my little guys, so it ain’t all bad.

Honestly, if I could pay my rent in laughs, I would never have to work again. And that would be just fine with me. Running a radical crafting resistance to over throw the patriarchy is fucking expensive.

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