I see you, you miserable sonovabitch. Shuffling along with that hockey equipment bag you call a "personal item," compulsively checking your phone to see if you're going to miss your flight while still in this security line. I see you seethe when the family of six in front of you doesn't understand the concept of removing liquids from their bags. And I see your indignation when you hear the words "male assist" because you forgot to take a gum wrapper out of your pocket. Your shoulder is throbbing, your feet feel like marble, and there's no chance you'll have time to eat anything but airline party mix for the next six hours.
Oh, and because you're an otherwise functional American adult, I don't feel a bit sorry for you.
As you mope through a line best described as Black Friday at Target, you're cursing somebody else. The "idiots" who run the TSA. The infrequent flyers who fumble the whole laptop procedure. The terrorists, who clearly "won" when they stole our freedom to arrive at the terminal 35 minutes before takeoff. But, really, the only person you have to blame is yourself: you still haven't signed up for TSA PreCheck, and if you had, you'd already be playing Plants vs. Zombies at the gate.