Neck-Liposuction.com

Hi so I wrote this a while back and Im not sure if it is any good to be honest, what do you think?

1

I hate flying; not the actual up in the sky part, I like that. It’s the way you feel and look when you land. You shouldn’t have to wait to get off. You should land; collect your carryon and exit. It doesn’t work like that though.

I have already been seated for eight hours, while the kid behind me loves nothing more than to kick the back of my chair for the whole duration. The man sat between myself and the handsome guy, who I have been making flirty eye contact with for the last 3 hours, is sweating. Come to think of it, I’m sure my eyes crossed over a few times with the smell. That’s probably why Mr. Handsome has been looking at me like I’m mad. There goes my dream of him and I falling madly in love, finding out he had a private jet and my days of waiting to get off, quashed.

The sound of the pilot’s voice fills the plane from the speaker overhead and finally I am free. I make my way through customs and search for the door with the little silhouette of the lady. I view myself in the tiny round mirror hanging above the sink and realize that my eyes crossing over wasn’t the only reason I was getting the weird looks. I look like a panda. Reaching into my handbag I feel around for a baby wipe. I’m too scared to look inside as I may get lost. My bag is so large that the check in lady back at Heathrow asked if it was my luggage. I do love a massive handbag though; I have everything in mine, from my make-up to safety pins. The safety pins aren’t in there anymore; they got confiscated at the x ray machine. Pretty embarrassing that turned out to be. I had to empty the contents of my bag on a little wooden table. One of my tampons had fallen on the floor. I hadn’t noticed until I heard a little girl scream something about a mouse. Well that was it, people were running screaming and jumping up onto chairs. The security guard looked at me and I told him he better not stand looking at me, the cleaner running around whacking the floor with a brush looks like she could need some help.

I wipe my eyes and reapply my mascara. Looking far better I leave the toilets and search the tiny screens above my head for my carousel number. Making my way over to number six I go over my ankles a few times. Reason: I wore my skyscraper heels today, unaware that JFK’s floor is an ice rink. I tell myself it’s the cleaners fault, she doesn’t have to buff the same spot ten times before moving onto the next. Then I feel bad, maybe she has OCD. I reach the carousel without breaking any of my ankles or neck. Its packed with people and I squeeze through to find a spot. Directly opposite from me is Mr. Handsome. My mum has always told me that it is rude to stare but I cant help it. His face is just perfect; his eyes are oval shaped and baby blue in colour. I’m too busy staring to notice my case whirling past. I try to run after it and finally I grab hold of the handle. Unfortunately my case is heavy, so the more I try to take it off the carousel the more it takes me round with it. People are tutting at me, I can’t see their faces; which is a huge relief, they just look like blurs. Suddenly I am stopped with someone’s back.
“I’m so sorry, I just-” my words stumble as he turns round.
He has his phone to one ear and lifts a hand to stop me from talking. He proceeds to lift his bag with great ease off the carousel and walks away. He never even noticed me. I sat beside him for eight hours straight and he didn’t notice. Other people have though; I can tell with the way they are all pointing and staring at me. My case has now travelled back through the little hole identical to the one it came out, now I have to sit down and wait all over again. Why am I always having to wait?