Dear Dude in the Middle Seat on the Plane Last Night:
Stop touching me. It’s the last row of this plane and it’s crowded. All I want to do is lean my head on the side of this window and go to sleep with a little help from my friend, Dramamine. I’m finding it hard to do that because you are sitting with your legs WAY too pronated and your arms crossed and now you are violating my space, my thighs and my sanity.
See that armrest in between us? It’s a barrier. This is MY flight space that is YOUR flight space. Don’t cross the line! Quite frankly, you’re lucky I didn’t forge a shank out of my lipstick case and cut you.
Also. The flight attendants? They don’t care that you know one of their own in Orlando. They just want to do their job which, apparently, includes bringing you Bud Light. Thanks for adding that smell to the experience. I take Dramamine for a reason, asshole, and you are NOT HELPING.
I can’t speak for our other rowmate, but I’m fairly certain Miss head-to-toe Kappa Delta (flip flops included) wasn’t enjoying her experience either. She, however, had the benefit of aisle space to lean into. Lucky gal.
Don’t be on my flight home.