If you have taken a flight with me, you would know I have a tremendous fear of flying or to be exact, fear of dying while flying.
Every time the airplane takes off, my cool airport chick persona jumps out of the plane and leave me with my inner voice screaming to me things like: “Yep, you are going to die today, I hope wherever you’re going is worth the risk!” or “You should have given your laptop password to Fafa, no-one knew about your digital will“. At times it would just calmly whisper “You.die.today”.
I hate taking flights!
I hate being crammed like sardines with strangers and lifted 40,000 feet up in the air.
How the hell that huge metal thing flies anyway?
I usually try to trick myself to not keep thinking that someone I never met before is in charge of my family’s bloodline for the next hours, so I watch the flight entertainment (if it’s not a budget flight I am taking, which is very rare) or I read my kindle.
And I eat.
Airline dining is the only good thing about being up in the air.
Being served at predetermined times and being woken up for it. Being offered choices and being surprised when I opened my meal of choice, which I groggily choose while still half awake.
This is the only thing I can tolerate while being squeezed in between strangers.
Over the years, I made a record of my what at that time felt like the last meal (no exaggeration) — I must tell you this idea is not an FG’s original, I got it from Veve of V in V_Hongkong — and I am going to start sharing it here on the blog.
That’s all for now.