Truly. I do it often as part of my job, and I can’t say I like it, but it doesn’t scare me any more or less now than it did before the attacks.

Doyce, you’re full of shit.

Not so much as you might think. I don’t like flying mostly because of the annoyance, and sure, I’m peripherally aware that the activity I’m engaged in has a slightly lower survival rate than sitting on my ass at home making entries in my blog. You know what those odds changed to when the attacks happened? Pretty much the same thing; if anything, it’s gone down.

The odds that a plane would be highjacked and used as a bomb have been as high as they are now for at least a year, we just didn’t know it. Now we know — does it really change anything? No. Do I like flying? Not really. Do I want to get back to it? Yeah.

I want to prove to other people that the water’s fine, you just have to watch out for the sharks.

Them: There are sharks in the water?
Me: Yeah, but they’ve always been there.
Them: Mightn’t they bite you?
Me: Well, they are fucking SHARKS, after all. You just have to keep your eyes on em.

It’s safe to be in the air (safe as it’s ever been, at least), but I don’t know how safe it is to be stuck in line for four hours. The odds of a safe flight might have raised marginally, but the odds of catching shrapnel when a frustrated business exec spontaneously combusts waiting for his turn at the metal detector? Those odds just went up.