Welcome to this new death sentence .
This is your sequel of sadness, the next episode of your miserable low-cost saga.
Lets pretend to call it a flight report shall we..
The terminal looks like someone gave up halfway through designing a prison, then added a Boost Juice to make it “livable.” There’s a distinct scent of broken ambitions and disinfectant. Every seat in the waiting area whispers, “You are not a priority.” Even the announcements sound like they’re trying not to wake you from your nap of mediocrity. Here, you’re not a passenger. You’re processed cargo with depression.
But you know what ? thats okay because I am not even worth more than that.
I deserve that
the staff at the check-in hesitates before printing my boarding pass, as if to say, “You sure about this?”
The staff asks me to confirm my name. I consider saying “No” and walking away instead.
My existence feels heavier day after day. At that point, I just wanna travel as a merchandise in the cargo …
now my suitcase weighs less than my soul. At least one of us is within acceptable limits.
Security at Jetstar’s domestic terminal isn’t really about safety it’s a ritual humiliation. You undress emotionally as much as physically. The tray rolls away with your belt, your dignity, and the last trace of self-worth. The agents don’t even look at you, not out of efficiency, but because making eye contact might accidentally humanize you. Your bag gets flagged for “suspicious sadness.” You pass through the body scanner wondering if the machine can detect how little you think of yourself.
Spoiler: it can.
I bought a muffin with a hot drink just to pretend I am normal. I took a picture and shared it on my social network
I will not touch any of this obviously . I ended up giving away those things.
Yesterday I ate some cat food and that was more than enough for my standards.
Jetstar’s boarding process is a metaphor for my dating life: chaotic, slow, and full of people regretting their decisions.
They call Group 1. Jetstar knows where I belong : at the back of the queue and of society.
As I walk down the jet bridge, I try to remember the last time I felt joy. Was it… 2011? No, that was just a good sandwich.
I sit between a child who kicks and a man who breathes like a dying vacuum. At this point, I’m just a meat sandwich of despair.
My seat doesn’t recline, just like my confidence. A perfect match.
The legroom is so tight, I can feel my kneecaps merging with my liver. Maybe this is how I’ll finally evolve.
The plane starts taxiing like it just realized its dreams of being a real aircraft are laughable. A 5-minute crawl to the runway that mirrors my own emotional hesitation in life.
As we line up for takeoff, I whisper my final regrets to the plastic seat in front of me. Jetstar doesn’t believe in headrests or in customer dignity.
The engines roar …well, they try. It’s like hearing a blender beg for mercy. We lift off just enough to escape our shame on the ground and enter the shame of the air.
The angle of ascent feels like the universe mocking me for trying. Even gravity seems reluctant to let this plane rise.
We’re floating through the sky in what feels like a recycled printer cartridge with wings. The coffee costs $5.50, and so does my will to live
The plane begins its descent, unlike my mood, which was already rock bottom since boarding. The guy next to me starts stretching like he’s done something worthy of recovery.
Melbourne greets us with clouds, like even the city knows we’re not worth sunlight. I don’t get up right away.
Another flight, another piece of my self-worth left in a Jetstar seatback pocket. Maybe one day I’ll fly with dignity. But today, I fly with Jetstar.
I hope to find love somedays
Did I mention that I have skin problems?
