Dear Woman Sitting Behind Me in 12A on This Flight to Vegas,
For the last two and a half hours I’ve been suppressing a distinct and snowballing hatred for you. You insist on squawking at full volume on and on about all the mundane things that come to your mind. Dismal proof of your repressed suburban life. Mindless chatter that sets those subjected to it back decades of intellectual years when heard at normal volume, but at your chosen decibel level, it’s simply unbearable.
And of course, you have a Southern accent which makes your inane yammering sound, if at all possible, more vapid.
As if that was not enough, after one and a half Shock Tops you’ve taken to laughing at everything you say. Your favorite topic has been how ridiculously hot it is on this plane. When the flight attended asked you if you wanted anything you requested air conditioning and then threatened to “strip down to your skivvies.” I got a good look at you when you went to use the lavatory, and seeing you in your skivvies would be an event so unholy, I would sell my own mother into white slavery to keep your clothes on.
This shrieking toddler is a welcome sound compared to your incessant babbling.
My hatred for you burns so fiery that I would love nothing more than to put you on the business end of the fully automatic rifle I’ll be firing tomorrow at the range.
The man in the aisle seat of my row and I have exchanged several exasperated glances. I want to tear open your empty Shock Top can and saw on your jugular with the frayed edges. Unfortunately, my WASPiness will only afford me a few glorious seconds of unbroken Hate Stare as you returned to your seat from the restroom. If you push on my seat back one more time I like to think that I’d rip off your meaty arm and beat you with it mercilessly but all I will do is quietly seethe.
I’m sure the other girls in your doctor’s office think you’re a laugh riot, but right now at 27,000 feet, all I want to do is watch you bleed to death slowly.
Or maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe they hate you exponentially more than I could ever even dream of hating you. After all, it is they who must listen to the putrefaction that oozes from your fatty vocal chords day in and day out. They steel themselves on their Monday morning commutes, knowing that they are powerless to stop your stories about what little Kaylin did this weekend and your Southern Fried Witticisms. They will do nothing but smile weakly as you shove powdered Donettes into your maw as you talk, expelling puffs of white sugar smoke into the air.
These people deserve medals of valor.
On behalf of everyone on Flight 755 with service to Las Vegas, I hope you choke to death on your $8.88 lunch buffet ribeye.
Sarah in 11A