I’m leaving on a jetplane

So I made it through security without a cavity search – chance would be a fine thing.

Bar the fact someone guffed with the punctuality of a glade air freshener, that flight was pretty fucking pleasant. It was 11 hours and left at 4.45pm… So every sensible person would have assumed a nice sleep at the normal time would leave me no worse off even though I was technically chasing the sun. So what I decided to do was rinse 10 hours and 55 minutes of ‘The Walking Dead’ and make sure my tiny plastic glass of free booze never ran dry.
My original seat was next to a young and attractive couple who it surfaced after a chat, were doing a road trip around the states. I didn’t really want to shit up their coupley flight with my drunk singley presence. So I moved back a couple of rows back next to a lone girl who had the window seat with a spare seat between us we could both use for foot resting, bag holding and maybe building a little fort. We made eye contact and gave each other a toothless line smile which told me everything I needed to know. I wasn’t going to have to talk to this girl – like, at all – and that suited me just fine.

After my move I got back to the task at hand – being a strange and confident young woman. And my first thought was: It’s nice getting drunk on my own terms. No one to answer to here, no one to beg to leave the party, no one to tell you you’re making a scene. Friends would never do that. Unless you were like…shitting yourself and shouting racist slurs. All it takes is a wobble on a new look heel for a boyfriend to tell you off. It isn’t 1940 fucking five pal… Emily Pankhurst threw herself in front of the kings horse for my god given right to have seven prossecos, a fag, get too dizzy and demand an uber home with little to no consequence. Wait, Emily Davison? Whatever I’m drunk. Yes – getting trollied guilt free is definitely a single perk I could get used to. I don’t need a boyfriend, I have a pretty sweet neck pillow.
When it came time to touchdown I was asked to move to my allocated seat, which my dad cheerfully informed me on my drive to the airport is so if they find your charred remains in a wreckage strapped to a seat they can just check the manifest for a swift corpse recognition service. Clever bastards.

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