If my girl was an air-traffic controller I’d just tune in all day and admire her work

If my future husband gets his clothes from a home delivery virtual fashion service, i’m no longer married. That shit is for gays who don’t have the balls to be gay. Is that homophobic? The clothes are shit

I lost the cat. I can’t find the cat. Did i really lose her if she was never here? She should be here. Where is she? This was the job. Look after the cat. But no cat. The posibilities are racing through my mind. Cats get in suitcases, suitcases that are left for packing, packing which Dana just did to leave for the UK, leave on a plane that is. A plane with a hold. Suitcase in the hold. Cat in the hold. Cat can’t breathe. Suitcase doesn’t need to breathe but cat defo can’t breathe. Lori, Lori can help. She’s American, maybe the cat will come back for her. Fuck, what if my texts cost her because roaming. Does she use Whatsapp? No. Fuck. Maybe I call Dana, who is currently flying across the Atlantic. For fucks sake. I can’t call Iain, it’s 2am in Britain. That’s all my options spent, unless the cat has a phone, which I assume she doesn’t. I’m fucked, if I can’t find this cat i’m fucked so bad I should just jump out of these big gorgeous windows.

I found the cat hidden behind a shoe-rack at the base of a cupboard. I went through every conceivable place my brain figured a cat could climb, apologising the whole way as I did the unforgivable and snooped with the sole purpose of finding the cat. I was on all fours, head planted to the ground, looking sideways under the rack and she reached out and scratched my head. Thank the fucking lord. I sat back on the sofa, sweat dripping from my bloody brow calming myself with the bird noises Dana had left playing to calm the cat. I think the cat’s French. “You couldn’t even find me, you fucking English Pig”. Oo la la, what a night.

Airports must be hell for autistic people. Everything’s so loud and bright. Wading through the tide of perfume slingers, their scents combining into a curtain like cloud between you and the safety of your gate. Even getting that far is an unspoken achievement. They take your bag, give it a sticker and send it on it’s own little holiday through the winding stainless steel conveyers of airport logistics, getting liberally battered along the way. Security has you stripped of your belongings, touched in a routine like manner which is fine for them but makes it no less overstimulating. Once through security you’re in the no-mans-land of duty free. I’m sure the toilets have cameras but I can’t spot them. The restaurant knives are snub nosed and dull, handed to you as if you’re the one they think’ll go off on a mad rampage, cutting up the well meaning people of tourism. Leave your happy go stabby hands at the door, we know your game and as for your so called money, it has a foreigners face on it now so believe us when we tell you it’s worth fuck all so hand it over, this is the airport god-damn-it and we make the rules. I’m not autistic.

My gate isn’t available yet so I asked information which gates my airline have access to, usually they’re in blocks. The dopy girl who looked as though the makeup plastered on her eyelids was weighing them down, either that or she was stoned, informed me that the gate wasn’t open yet. To my question as to where my airline usually resides, she pointed out of the glass wall behind her and muttered “The planes land over there”. I left, defeated.

The baby on board stickers you see in cars aren’t to have you behave and not honk a sleeping child, they’re for paramedics knowing which vehicle to give attention to first in an accident. Which is kind of morbid.

2 babies on plane, don’t think you have to pay. They’re likely classified as hand luggage. Don’t put them through the scanner though.

Wallet, Phone, passport, ticket to ride. – The essencials. 2 Pairs of earphones, one for phone, another for plane. 2 Cables, one USB-C another USB. Tied down by the spools of cables needed to keep me charged. Also cigs and patches.

Four Irish girls at Check-In “Ya flyin on ya own?!”