Dear Diary,
I’m 37,000 feet in the air, on my way back to Montreal from LA. My eyes are dry. I haven’t watched any movies on this flight. Unusual, I know. I’ve spent the last three hours reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair. After sniffing the perfume sample (Bleu de Chanel), I read the Phoebe Waller-Bridge interview, got caught up on the Brangelina wine empire drama, and read a feature on a millennial influencer-slash-writer called Caroline Calloway. Apparently she lives with a costumed cat in her grandma’s retirement condo in Florida. She says her brand is “chaos.”
In the spirit of including more “senses” in my writing, I’d like to mention that a man with red curly hair is snoring loudly a couple of rows behind me. Oh, before I forget: I didn’t make it to the final round of the competition. I received the judges’ feedback for my sci-fi script several days ago, but I didn’t open the email until today. I was afraid of ruining the last leg of our trip. Turns out my PMS took care of that.
The man to my left has a rowdy eighteen-month-old on his lap. He keeps looking at me, as if he wants me to smile at his baby’s shenanigans. I am unmoved. He doesn’t realize I have my own baby, an eight-year-old angel, two seats to my right. He also doesn’t realize that I’m socially tapped out. I have nothing to give. Maybe that’s why I can’t watch TV right now. The flight attendant, a tall man with a charcoal cardigan and a nose ring, is approaching with the beverage cart. Thank God there’s Clamato on the plane. I spent the past ten days drinking diluted shrimp cocktail sauce Americans call “Bloody Mary.”
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to OBSESSED: A Newsletter to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.