Flying home from Steemfest - A Horror Story

Where to start? Usually at the beginning... Not this time.
More pressing matters at hand.
This particular story explores and recounts the frailties of how we are so critically at the mercy of our mortal shell in our journey through life.
THIS particular chapter in the story is uncomfortable, unpleasant, and hopefully not relatable.
You've been warned.
Have you ever actually touched the toilet paper roll on an airplane?
There are two; one on top, one beneath.
Take a guess which one I reached for? It's a trick question... That's right! The one which still had product to offer (it was the bottom one). If you've ever had to reach in that direction while flying the friendly skies, I can guarantee you the skies weren't feeling so friendly that day.
At the outset, this roll, like manna from heaven, seemed to never end. Though end it did, miraculously at the perfect time: cleaning the bowl, complying with the golden rule for whatever poor soul might be doing a dance outside my door.
Luckily for them, paper towels are available to dry your hands. With five and a half hours left on the flight, I suspect they'll serve a more noble purpose.

Pharmacists will tell you to never use expired medication. Well, beggars can't be choosers.
The expired Imodium made me PROFOUNDLY thankful for how long they had been there, and not served any purpose 'til now... I have never had a problem with food on Delta or at a Sky Club.
To be fair, I had just watched the Ghostbusters reboot so the jury's forever out on the cause of my current predicament.
While praying to God, Allah, and Odin (Praise Odin!) that these 8-years-past-expiration-meds would offer relief, the immortal words of Canadian folk singer Gordon Lightfoot came to mind:
"Does anyone know, where the love of God goes, when the minutes are turned into hours."

The first time I heard Gordon Lightfoot's song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" I felt my very soul yearn for that sentiment. After this flight, my body was obliged with a similar appreciation.
So much so that new lyrics to that ballad came to light:
"Yea, the sleep I so craved, must abate another quarter day,
lest I wake up to a situation most awful.
Nothing's left to be said, just keep awake your sleepy head,
and keep that red wine a'coming!
It's true things could be worse, as I think up another verse,
while two particular muscles keep crossin'!"
Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald; the most powerfully haunting song I have ever known. I would insert a link here if I knew how on my iPhone...
May this harrowing tale be the closest you ever come to a similar predicament.
Praise Odin!