It’s 7am and I’m passing through the lines at Ninoy Aquino International Airport. NAIA. My flight is 8am. I’m drunk.
It’s 9 o’clock, I’m in 60F, still drunk. Last time I ate, maybe, probably, last night. My stomach is growling acidic, drunken hunger.
24 hours of travel to sit and think; about failed relationships; about uncertainty. About everything and nothing.
By the time the flight attendant comes around with the food cart, I’m feeling more of a hangover than anything else. I get eggs and sausage because it sounds like the other option she says, only barely above the sound of the air vents and wind rushing along the body of the jet—the pressure working against my eardrums—is “corn and rice”.
It’s 9 o’clock, I’m in 60F, still drunk. Last time I ate, maybe, probably, last night. My stomach is growling acidic, drunken hunger.
24 hours of travel to sit and think; about failed relationships; about uncertainty. About everything and nothing.
By the time the flight attendant comes around with the food cart, I’m feeling more of a hangover than anything else. I get eggs and sausage because it sounds like the other option she says, only barely above the sound of the air vents and wind rushing along the body of the jet—the pressure working against my eardrums—is “corn and rice”.
