It was the year 2000. It was springtime. I am writing like Hemingway. I was going to England. My parents were across the aisle from me. They were guarding my MS medication for me in a cooler. It had to be cooled. Now it does not have to be cooled. It was nice to be going on a trip.
I spent ten hours sitting next to the worst alcoholic on the plane. After he asked me to join the mile high club, I moved away from him. He hurled big time. It was awful. The stewardesses were angry.
Later, he could not get off the plane because he was too drunk. I could not walk off the plane because I have MS. So later at Heathrow airport, he spotted me. "What's wrong with you?" he said. "I have multiple sclerosis." I said. He said, "Oh. I just got too drunk."
He sobered up. I still have MS. Something is not right about this entire story. I can't believe I even told it. I am going to throw up now. Not really. But I might. -Alison Whiteman