In my personal hell, everyone is angry, arguing, and fighting all the time. There are white lilies everywhere. No one ever flushes the toilet, I share my home with cockroaches, and every time I speak, people roll their eyes, snicker, ignore me, or start talking about me in a language I don’t understand.
The temperature in my personal hell is always above 30°C, and all the air conditioning is broken. I am unable to wash my hair or take a shower. The only place to sit down and rest is in the middle one of a row of airplane seats, and the people on either side of me are using the armrests. All my clothes are made of cotton wool.
The internet does not exist, and the only choices on the TV are trashy talk shows and American soap operas. I can’t hear them anyway, because my personal hell is filled with the sound of crying babies, electronic dance music, and someone sniffing every 10 seconds.
I am constantly hungry and thirsty in my personal hell, and the only snacks allowed are liquorice and beondegi. All food is bland and dry, and there are no sauces, condiments, or spices. The only drinks available are Pernod Anise and Jägermeister.
Every time I sit down to eat in my personal hell, people strike up a conversation about vomit or some other horrible bodily function. There is a husk of popcorn kernel stuck in my teeth, and I know that no amount of brushing, flossing, rinsing or picking will ever dislodge it. I am forced to talk on the phone for an hour every day, and then make small talk with strangers while standing in a noisy, crowded place where I can’t properly hear.
All single men are skin-headed and clean-shaven, and have Liverpudlian accents.
In my personal hell, I am always wearing contact lenses, and eye drops do not exist. My lips are dry and chapped, and I am wearing chipped nail polish, false eyelashes, and a bra one size too small.
High heels are mandatory.