born an airplane in a city of cars, you never get a long enough, unimpeded stretch of road to take off. crawling along at taxi speeds from one red light to the

born an airplane in a city of cars, you never get a long enough, unimpeded stretch of road to take off. crawling along at taxi speeds from one red light to the next, your ungainly wings constantly bang into street lamps, knock over signage, and force irritated cars to keep a wide clearance. your engine is horribly inefficient at surface level, your internal gages give you useless reading about things like yaw and pitch, you have no turn signals, and there's nowhere to park. it just goes on and on. eventually you resign to your fate, saw off your worthless wings, and try to make the bumbling, ill-fitted best of ersatz car life. and all the while everyone trying to "help" you get your life straight is whispering to one another, "why on earth does he think he's some kind airplane? he's not even good at being a car!"