August 5th, 2011:
The flight to Heathrow was something I’d parallel with a trip to the hospital, if only because the memory of it, translates well with disease. What I remember the most, is the constant headache I had grilled there within, what with my eyes like scrambled eggs, and my mouth something of a desert. While living the experience, I went into it all with a heck of a lot of optimism however. There was continually the dream of a great adventure, that sort of kissed off the pain of the illness I had claimed forever as my own. The frazzled result of it maybe, was most likely because I refused to eat, which for me, was something of a routine, but was never highlighted with much intensity, no. 
Growing up, I would go through vicious food cycles, in which I’d strip myself of nutrition one week, and then binge like a fucking beast. This was nothing of course anything pre-thought out, but was merely due to my current living habits. Instead of consuming the constant media of the televised ’90s, I would sit around and vomit up creative projects, if only to feel sane. And sometimes along the way, I would forget details of the day to day, like little anecdotes of a typical routine, that must get done simply out of necessity. I was a bit psycho.
“This reminds me of the Titanic”, Alex said at one point, in a sickly manner. 
He was referring in large to the overall feel of our flight into London, what with our being serviced blandly by the various flight attendants, and the small television monitors blinking wildly at the back of each passenger seat. 
My response was harsh and idiotic and regretted as soon as it was uttered. First I asked a question by whispering “Really?”, which ultimately followed boldly with: “I was thinking something more along the lines of Auschwitz." 
Poisoned laugher fell out of both our gaping mouths, and all those involved twinged with a knowing pain of dehydration and insomnia. We sat there pulling at each other miserably, for entertainment, and had been locked up in airport after airport, left feeling run-down, and useless, and collectively, fooled.
Eventually the naughty ghost of time, filled up space and took form in the exchange of talking voices. Stories of heartfelt connection, took the stand. Secrets were revealed and it felt good to share oneself in that way. Likewise, some external communication was had with the male flight attendant that manned the distribution of food and drinks. The night time meal options were easy and simple: “Chicken or pasta”?  We picked quick and obvious.
The meal then was delivered in a plastic-wrapped cadaver, consisting of noodles in sauce, a crumbly bun, a small chocolate chip cookie, as well as a mini-salad that came served with enough ranch dressing to last a life-time. 

August 5th, 2011:

The flight to Heathrow was something I’d parallel with a trip to the hospital, if only because the memory of it, translates well with disease. What I remember the most, is the constant headache I had grilled there within, what with my eyes like scrambled eggs, and my mouth something of a desert. While living the experience, I went into it all with a heck of a lot of optimism however. There was continually the dream of a great adventure, that sort of kissed off the pain of the illness I had claimed forever as my own. The frazzled result of it maybe, was most likely because I refused to eat, which for me, was something of a routine, but was never highlighted with much intensity, no. 

Growing up, I would go through vicious food cycles, in which I’d strip myself of nutrition one week, and then binge like a fucking beast. This was nothing of course anything pre-thought out, but was merely due to my current living habits. Instead of consuming the constant media of the televised ’90s, I would sit around and vomit up creative projects, if only to feel sane. And sometimes along the way, I would forget details of the day to day, like little anecdotes of a typical routine, that must get done simply out of necessity. I was a bit psycho.

This reminds me of the Titanic”, Alex said at one point, in a sickly manner. 

He was referring in large to the overall feel of our flight into London, what with our being serviced blandly by the various flight attendants, and the small television monitors blinking wildly at the back of each passenger seat. 

My response was harsh and idiotic and regretted as soon as it was uttered. First I asked a question by whispering “Really?”, which ultimately followed boldly with: “I was thinking something more along the lines of Auschwitz.

Poisoned laugher fell out of both our gaping mouths, and all those involved twinged with a knowing pain of dehydration and insomnia. We sat there pulling at each other miserably, for entertainment, and had been locked up in airport after airport, left feeling run-down, and useless, and collectively, fooled.

Eventually the naughty ghost of time, filled up space and took form in the exchange of talking voices. Stories of heartfelt connection, took the stand. Secrets were revealed and it felt good to share oneself in that way. Likewise, some external communication was had with the male flight attendant that manned the distribution of food and drinks. The night time meal options were easy and simple: “Chicken or pasta”?  We picked quick and obvious.

The meal then was delivered in a plastic-wrapped cadaver, consisting of noodles in sauce, a crumbly bun, a small chocolate chip cookie, as well as a mini-salad that came served with enough ranch dressing to last a life-time. 

  • 11 October 2012
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