Flying Sleepless from Seattle.

I originally posted this to Craigslist in Rants and Raves, and didn't want to lose this nugget.

To the middle seat airline passenger from Canada who shared a 3 hour and 30 minute ride from Seattle to Houston as I made my way to Philadelphia. I want to thank you. You made my trip notable, even though it was miserable. I can't wait to get back to my new home town Raleigh
First, when you sat down and started chatting, I understand. We’re going to share a few hours together. You regaled me of international Latin American travels. Stories of great living in Canada and discussed US politics. Not horrible. When you started describing your work and told me of the 30-40 million dollar properties your clients buy through you, my bullshit flags triggered off, and I began to zone out. You sell to the Canadian elite, and you are here in coach with me. Nice play, Trump.

However, when we passed 10,000 feet and you opened your laptop, to show me your modern day equivalent of family trip slide shows (without your family within), I pretty much realized I would not be sleeping. As you browsed through which image collections in your 10 year old bootleg copy of Photoshop Elements, I worried the show would never begin, and therefore never, ever end. But then you opened the “People” folder, and I was greeted with images of a nude, overweight woman perhaps in her 50’s or 60’s at which point my own manhood leapt up in to my abdomen. Her bloated belly, floppy tits and beaten posture were enough to make me want to start an investment portfolio designed to keep my wife in plastic surgery for the next 30 years. When I finally see my wife on Sunday, rest assured sex won’t come into play thanks to those horrid images of what gravity does to the body. I suspect the next time I see an erection we will have either an African American or woman president. I know, your photography makes you an “artist”. And my sense of decorum and personal space makes me a human with decorum and personal space. You should focus on these latter traits and let people with talent be artists. I just pray that isn’t your wife, or I will never erase this disturbing piece of my personal history from my memory.

But the second strike was when you played an audio track of some tribal music as you showed me your third rate imagery on a legacy laptop which was built sometime around the time the B-52s were popular, and microprocessors could do amazing things like add integers. The music sounded great over the deafening roar of turbine engines and babies crying. Yes, you told me about the amazing photo gear you have in your cool carry-on bag. And just like my amazing golf clubs don’t make me a decent golfer, clearly your equipment has outclassed you. The difference is that I don't make people watch me suck at golf. Great random pictures of seaside towns in Latin America. Got it. I am sitting next to Magellan. You discover people of color that no one has seen before. Oh wait, that kid in the photo is wearing a Phillies jersey. Some f*&$ing discovery, Ponce DeLeon. It was great when the lesbian couple turned around, with that annoyed look that you deftly ignored. When I asked you to turn down the music, to help assuage their pain, you simply pretended not to hear. It wasn’t until I told you I needed some rest that the show ended and the next phase of my indoctrination into hell began.

But then swing number three and you tip the ball, so I don’t want to kill you yet (out of sheer bewilderment. Like a car accident I am prevented from looking away). You try to describe to me what is happening in the photos. But surprise, I am not pretending not to hear you. The god damned engines we sit above drown you out, so while you attempt to describe the scenery and how you took these Ansel Adams-like masterpieces, your non-audible drone simply added to the din, and now, all I want to do is turn on my Zune and ignore you. Christ, why didn’t the skinny, hot co-ed get the damned E seat and stuck you against the window. Karma sucks. I never killed an innocent, never kicked a kitty and all of my impure thoughts remain in my head, so why do I get punished. I am not saying anything would happen. Quite the opposite – Like all 20 something hotties, they simply don’t talk to me – or touch me – and I would get the needed sleep. Everyone wins. At least me.

But my favorite part comes after you doze off into the slumber which now escapes me. Flying Continental Airlines the seats are already small, like some form of torture designed to create body odor and uncomfortable situations. But somehow you were able to infringe into my personal space so far (as well as to the pretty college girl sitting in the window seat) Your elbow rested comfortably on my love handles and allowed you to sleep deeply, while my disdain for the touch of total strangers kept me from sleeping, let alone sitting with any reasonable comfort. Sure, I understand you are in the middle seat, and therefore, I will give you the arm rest. That's fair. However, jerkoff, it is for your elbow, and not your wrist. Take your elbow and shove it.

So instead of sleeping, I am writing this pseudo-personal fuck you to the internet for all to read. However, I will say you aren’t entirely to blame. The woman in front of me is easily six foot six and 250. Her tryout with the Dallas Cowboys is tomorrow, and she clearly needs her sleep. Every time she does her grizzly bear stretch, she crushes my laptop closed on my fingers. It is amazing, because I can hear the frame of the chair bend with every yawn. Her pitiful chair creaks like an aluminum garden chair from my aunt's 1970's collection of cheap, crappy chairs. (the kind that gave you tetanus.)
I really miss Southwest airlines.
Sleepless flying from Seattle.