Yes hi… this is my flight report.
I arrive early at the airport . Not because I am scared to miss my flight but because I have no social life. I have no friends nor people who would care about me going to Australia.
I also have issues with my skin these days.
So…I arrive at Incheon with the same enthusiasm I usually reserve for dentist appointments and breakup
I walk into the terminal like a man heading to his own execution, except the guillotine is orange and branded Jetstar.
The luggages are full… of negativity. in fact there is 10% of clothes and 90% of toxicity.
I need a coach to restructure my life .
My ex dumped me a week ago and suggested me to get away from her . I took it in the literal sense
KE with the new logo. It looks fresher than my face now. Even my camera refuses to take any selfie of me. I am a worthless passenger.
The check-in counter stares at me like it knows I don’t belong in Australia or anywhere else.
I hand over my passport like I’m handing in the last shred of my dignity.
The agent asks if I’ve packed my bags myself. I resist the urge to say, “No, I outsourced it to the crushing weight of my life choices.”
Security makes me strip off everything except my will to live and even that’s under scrutiny.
The immigration officer looks at me, looks at my passport photo, and seems disappointed twice.
Flying Jetstar feels like being adopted by a family that only wanted the government subsidy.
Jetstar boards “by rows,” but in reality it’s by chaos and passive aggression.
I walk down the jet bridge like I’m boarding the Titanic, but with worse food and less class.
The only thing more budget than Jetstar’s ticket prices is my sense of self-worth.
As I board, the staff greet me like they’re doing charity work … and I deserve it.
They call it “economy class,” but it’s more like “recovery ward for forgotten dreams.”
Jetstar’s seat cushion is about as forgiving as my last relationship : thin, disappointing, and probably a fire hazard.
The legroom is designed for hobbits with scoliosis.
This is all what I deserve.
Thankfully , luckily , Jetstar provides us airpods for this flight
View from the seat
I booked Jetstar not because I wanted to, but because I needed a company that matched my self-worth: affordable, neglected, and running on fumes.
The Jetstar logo stares at me like a reminder that even my travel choices scream “he peaked in 2014.”
The michelin menu
They handed me the menu like it was a sacred text but it’s just overpriced misery laminated in false hope.
Water isn’t free. Because hydration, much like basic dignity, is a premium add-on.
Yoga instruction , how to be a better flexible marchandise
The plane takes off. I close my eyes and pretend I’m ascending out of my own failures…
I bought to my ex a gift more expensive than this flight ticket , a week after I got dumped .
As we lift off, I wonder if I remembered to turn off the gas stove or if this is finally how it ends.
I slept for a long time during this flight.
My neighbor snored like he was trying to summon Satan, and I’m just collateral damage.
Anyway…
Good morning, world!
Touchdown in Sydney, baby! The sky’s blue, the air’s fresh, and I am absolutely buzzing with gratitude and high-frequency vibrations. I feel like I just landed not only in Australia but directly into my new life.
This is the kind of morning where you tell yourself everything is possible. My chakras are aligned, my posture is confident, and my future is screaming my name in bold capital letters.
I walked through immigration like I owned three passive-income properties and a crypto portfolio that hasn’t tanked yet.
I smiled at strangers. I said “G’day” unironically. I’m in the moment, I’m present, I’m alive.
This isn’t just a new city. It’s a new era. I am done with mediocrity. I am done with fear. I am done with excuses.
This is MY time.
Let’s. F***ing. Go.
…
But then I remembered my ex.
And also I still have that weird rash on my lower back.
So now all I want is to lock myself in a trash room and suck on coins until the feeling goes away.
Sometimes I just want to be a suitcase.
Not even a fancy one , just some scuffed-up, half-broken, 4-wheeled Samsonite spinning in slow circles on a baggage carousel.
Something that’s been thrown, dragged, left in the rain at a transfer gate in Seoul or Busan whatev.
But when it arrives… oh, when it shows up, it matters.
People watch it come around the bend like it’s the one.
Eyes light up.
Someone runs towards it with purpose.
With affection.
It gets picked up. Held tight. Taken home.
Me? I just go around in circles …but nobody’s watching,
and I never get claimed.
