Your Dream Life, Part Two

You’re on a plane.

It’s a fancy plane but you’ve never been inside anything other than American Airlines Economy class so you base it off of the GE private jet in 30 Rock.

You’re on your way to Palm Springs with your friend Caitlin who keeps taking those tiny bottles of booze from the mini fridge, because this plane has a fucking mini fridge. She thinks no one can hear all the tiny bottles of whiskey clinking in her purse.

You look out the window.

Fucking everything is on fire.

The wings, the birds, the entire desert. You are going to die because your friend has an entire sloucy boho bag full of tiny travel-sized accelerants. The pilot says he’s going to try to make an emergency landing next to the Cabazon Dinosaurs but that it doesn’t look good. You think he should have kept that part to himself.

Your hair starts falling out in clumps. Just like all around you and onto the floor like you’re sitting in a barber’s chair. You consider calling your family and boyfriend to tell them you love them but you remember that there’s no reception and also that it’s probably too soon to tell him even if you are about to die a horrifying fiery death. Be cool. Do you want your last words to him to sound clingy?

The flight attendants are carrying on like nothing is wrong, it’s impressive because you lose your shit when you think you’re out of hazelnut flavor at work and then it turns out you were just too lazy to check behind some boxes. They plop a Lean Cuisine looking tray in front of you. Somewhere a red light is flashing and alarms are blaring.

“It’s chicken carbonara! See? If we were really dying they wouldn’t give us the good food,” Caitlin tells you.

This entire thing is probably a stress-induced metaphor for how you feel about your current birth control.

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