"Buy Nothing" pleas

I love free stuff. I brake for broken chairs abandoned on corners. I am first in line for a clothing swap. I enter every online sweepstakes that crosses my path.

Which brings me to the Buy Nothing Project. I loved this movement committed to gifting unwanted items within your community. I'm not the only one keen on this concept—there are more than 280,000 members in 18 countries participating on 1,300 Facebook groups.

I'm in one of those groups. Last summer, when I moved in with my boyfriend, my couch simply had no place in our home. I had special ordered that sofa from Dania, picking out a custom nubby tweed upholstery. I loved that thing but it didn't fit in the house—literally—so while lounging on it on the porch, I posted it on my local Buy Nothing page and got rid of it in under five minutes.

I gave it to the first person who responded.

Come to find out, it's not always that easy.

Buy Nothing giveaways are constantly being posted, catching my eye throughout the day. I'm not usually the first one to respond, so I think I'm out of the running. But hold the phone.

It's not always first-come, first-regifted.

The comment thread is chockablock with pleas and pitches. Sob stories, requests worthy of Mother Teresa, personal connections that can only mean that the Keurig/framed poster/lawn gnome/size 8 Mossimo dress and its suitor belong together.

When faced with "I'll use your grandmother's jewelry to make new pieces for a battered women's shelter" or "This will remind me every day of my dead cat" or "We lost all our plants in a fire,"
how's a greedy girl to compete?

I don't. I throw in the towel, look at my many belongings, and try to remember that Marie Kondo stuff about "sparking joy."

Please consider.

Evites

I’m going to make a bold statement: Evites are the downfall of manners and etiquette. 

Evite burst onto the scene in 1998 and quickly became part of the fabric of our lives, hooking us with its ease of use and transparency.'

And once the site reeled us in with cutesy-wootesy birthday and cocktail party templates, we got lazy.

Too lazy to send proper invites. I just heard today about an evite that was sent out for a small memorial service for a classy, elegant woman. She deserved better. She deserved hand-written invitations on 100-pound cardstock. If you’re having a housewarming party for everyone you know, pick a festive design and evite the shit out of your shindig. If you are having an intimate get-together to mark a significant event, care enough to send the very best. Get thee to a Hallmark, y’all.

Too lazy to explore other options for gorgeous, functional online invitation tools that aren’t littered with ads and a slow user interface. I only find out about sites like Paperless Posts when friends more adventurous than me invite me to something.

Too lazy to RSVP properly or at all. Evite notifies guests on the invite list by sending e-mails but it doesn’t include the event details. So people often don’t even bother to click through to the actual information, let alone reply. And if they do reply, they get a chance to sit on the fence with a “Maybe.” In my day, you either responded with a “Yes” or “No,” not a “I’ll try to come but I might be on a deadline.” I call bullshit.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to just say “No.” The allure of being able to peruse a guest list is irresistible. Is my frenemy going to be there? Is my former lover planning on coming with a +1? Are my favorite people opting out, leaving me to make stilted chitchat with that horribly dull man who never ever asks me a question about myself? Is that fashion plate coming? If so, that means I have to step up my sartorial game for the night. Evite allows us to make quasi-informed decisions regarding attendance without peppering the host with inappropriate questions.

So am I going to finally kick evites to the curb? “Maybe.” But I’m also indulging my love of stationery and loading up on some letterpressed invitations for my next soirée.

Food restrictions

Going out to eat with friends or family is one of life’s greatest pleasures. At least it should be. But it turns into an exercise in frustration and mortification when that loved one has food restrictions.

Being gluten-free is child’s play in the face of folks who are trying to work a menu when they are avoiding dairy, nightshades, high-fructose corn syrup or sugar in any form, prefer their water filtered, and are currently avoiding eight major foods as part of an elimination diet.

This is when I’d like to eliminate them. Or disappear into the floor of the restaurant, after giving the server a sympathetic look and a massive tip.

We all thought Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally was a high-maintenance diner. While she might be the patron saint of these picky eaters, her requests for salad dressing or ice cream on the side seem downright quaint.

It’s great that as a society we’ve evolved to the point that we can cut out major food groups and pantry staples from our diet. It’s a modern first-world problem. The Irish weren’t in a position to cut out starches or any other foodstuff when the famine hit the Emerald Isle, for feck’s sake. And I bet a starving child in Burundi would be more than happy to down that lobster mac and cheese you just poo pooed, dairy, gluten and shellfish sensitivities be damned.

If you don’t want to eat something, navigate toward a more palatable dish on the menu or stay home and roast an organic chicken. Don’t ask the chef to change a dish he or she spent considerable time perfecting. And don’t broadcast your laundry list of food issues to the table. This type of extreme self care just comes off as an attempt to pull focus from what really matters—that lobster mac and cheese, of course. I’m packing Prilosec.

Airline boarding process

I recently was flying out of Seattle when I realized just how low I ranked on the food chain of travel. I wasn’t flying first class. Or business class. And I didn’t have gold, silver or aluminum club status. I wasn’t a member of the military, or even wearing camo cargo pants ironically. I didn’t have small children or a feeble grandparent in tow. I myself wasn’t disabled, on crutches, in a wheelchair, or zooming around in one of those motorized La-Z-Boy scooters.

And no, I wasn’t sporting a Russell Wilson Seahawks jersey. Which on that day moved you to the front of the pre-boarding line.

In other words, my carry-on suitcase and I were hosed. It didn’t matter that I checked in 23 hours 59 minutes before our flight. I clearly was not part of any cool kids’ club. And I clearly need to get a credit card that earns me miles.

Can it really be called pre-boarding when 90 percent of passengers are locked and loaded by the time they announce Zone 1? Airlines want us to pay for upgrades so that we can board earlier and more importantly, feel as though we’re part of an elite group of flyers, the Star-Bellied Sneetches of the skies.

Here’s an idea: Maybe they should shift it to post-boarding. Board all of the seemingly normal, deodorant-wearing folks first and then call for the dregs. Wearing patchouli? You can finally board, and take the seat in the very last row. Lump all the Chatty Cathys together and seat them in the same row. Got a pupu platter of dietary issues? You get to board, only after the gate attendant flogs you with a bunch of lacinato kale that you get in lieu of the snack pack. Carrying a shit-ton of computer equipment so you can rock some in-flight spreadsheets? Enjoy sitting between the 6’7” dude in front of you and the inconsolable toddler who likes to kick behind you.

Or maybe the airlines should just go all Lord of the Flies at the boarding gate and let us fend for ourselves. Armed with my conch shell as my only carry-on item, I can assure you that I'll be elbowing my way to the exit row in short order, Russell Wilson jersey or no.

Blank Christmas cards

Blank Christmas cards are like supermodels: beautiful but empty.

This post may mark me as an Ebenezer and ensure that my mailbox remains empty come next December (providing that the world doesn't end on 12/21/12). 

This saddens me, as I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE getting mail. Opening my mailbox is one of life's simple pleasures. It's usually bills and weekly circulars, but the possibility of spotting a handwritten envelope or a familiar return address keeps the hope alive. 

It stokes my holiday fire. 

Receiving a postmarked holiday card can be a magical experience filled with sentiment. What's not so hot is opening the envelope and finding a lush gilded or letterpressed card with no personal message, just a scrawled signature. The letdown is acute. Instead of feeling connected and valued, I feel managed, a task you checked off your list three days ago.

While I appreciate making the cut, your blank card sends another message: "I care enough to send the very least." It drives home the point that in the Venn diagram of your social circle, I'm sitting in a circle on the fringe of your life.

The card becomes about you, instead of a gift to me. I get to admire your exquisite taste in artwork or your graphic design skills or how photogenic your children are (and yes, they really are adorable and growing so fast!). I'm happy to coo and ooh and ah, but I'd like to ask that you include a personal sentence or two that pertains to our relationship. Mention that it was good to see me last July or that you are glad we've been able to spend more time together or that you're looking forward to eating more pulled pork out of my Crock Pot in the new year (not a euphemism).

I gave up sending Christmas cards years ago because I wasn't able to sustain writing out 80 cards (more on that here). It began to feel like a chore, which wasn't what I was going for. While I'm not sending out a mass mailing, know that I love you, think your kids are really quite cute no matter what anyone says, and that I hope we find time in 2013 to eat a lot of braised meat together. And oh yeah, if you ever get a card from me in the mail, it will include a healthy sampling of my horrible handwriting.

Miley Cyrus's feet

Britney, bless her trashy heart, started it but Miley picked up the baton and is running with it. Barefoot. Like Zola Budd barefoot.

Over and over again, Miley and other teen sensations are scampering around Toluca Lake and Malibu in their bare feet. I love walking around bare foot as much as the next country girl-turned-city slicker, but usually I like walking on grass or sand or my hardwood floors, not on asphalt or stained gas station bathroom linoleum. There's always gonna be another mountain, and you need some proper fucking footwear to climb it.

Slip on some flip flips, dingaling, before I have a real party in the USA and go off on your ass. Don't even get me started about the side boob and dreamcatcher tat. That's a whole tumblr blog waiting to happen.

(photo: knottycelebs.com)

Special-occasion fleece

As the curtains opened on my evening, things looked promising. I bellied up to the bar, where I was greeted by a handsome man in a natty suit. We moved on to the theater to see Lewis Black's charming and funny play, One Slight Hitch.

There was, however, one slight hitch. Actually, there were a few hundred hitches surrounding me. Men and women alike were sporting fleece vests, cargo shorts, baseball caps, polo shirts adorned with Microsoft logos, and grotty comfort sandals. The audience looked like they were ready to gut a fish, not watch a performance by professional actors (that they paid good money to experience).

Like weddings, job interviews, and black-tie galas, the theater is a special event. Like spotting a unicorn or rainbow, it's not something that happens every day, at least in my world. The theater is a reason to get dressed up, not give up. Akin to wearing pajamas as outerwear, wearing convertible pants and your favorite hoodie is a sign that you don't give a shit, either about yourself or the cultural institution. I know I live in Seattle, but for fuck's sake, people and REI employees, would it kill you to wear tinted lipgloss or pants that reach to the floor?

If you keep insisting on wearing the same garb for weeding the garden and supporting the arts, I'll have no choice but to bring the lights down on your sorry performance. And...scene.

(photo: theepochtimes.com)

The ever-present Bluetooth

Are you a cyborg? Ari Gold? A sex phone operator? No?

Too bad.

If you were, I might give your face a pass (particularly if you’re a T-800) but now I’m going to have to give you a smackdown that will leave you black and Bluetoothless. I know the frequency, Kenneth, and you and I are on different wavelengths.

The 2012 version of a pager clipped to your waist, an eewtooth not only receives messages, it sends one. It communicates one thing loud and clear: YOU’RE A MASSIVE TOOL.

If you have to try that hard to look important, chances are you’re not. Unless you’re driving or performing surgery or tracking down Sarah Conner, stuff that thing in your pocket. Heck, clip it to your belt. Maybe I’ll think it’s a pager, which is almost old-school cool by comparison. Almost.

(photo: submergemag.com)

People who stop at the top of escalators

Um, excuse me. You there at the top of the escalator. No, not you. That guy. The completely unaware yambag checking his watch, looking at a map, looking anywhere but behind him. EXCUSE ME! I’m about to rear-end you, and not in a good way. Where the fuck do you think I and the rest of moving humanity queued up behind you are going to go?

Up your ass, that’s where. Escalators don’t break for boobs, Einstein, and neither does my ire. I’m going to create my own moving walkway and I’m going to call it “Your Back.” Are you listening now?

(photo: perezsolomon.com)

People who don't scoop their poop

Unless you’re some fancy-pants lord who has traveled through time with your German Shorthair Pointer and can’t wrap your 19th-century mind around the idea of picking up after your pooch, you’d best find something with which to clean the sidewalk or I’m going to mop the floor with you. Caught unawares? Find a big leaf, trash, your hat, something.

For the love of all that’s good and holy (i.e. my shoes), at least pull your pooch off the sidewalk so a hapless passerby doesn’t step in your shit. It’s as though you are giving a giant steaming fecal finger to the rest of us, which not only merits a punch in your thoughtless face, but a flaming bag of Great Dane scat on your doorstep as well.

(photo: yourdailythread.com)

Knighted celebrities

Hey you, with the fancy title and doodad pinned to your chest:

Did you rescue a damsel in distress? Pull a sword out of a stone? Do battle in the name of the crown?

No? What's that, you say? You played a vixen on Dynasty and bear responsibility for introducing shoulder pads to the 1980s? Showed your power by "Stayin' Alive" on the airwaves in 1977? Make expensive handbags only royalty and maybe Oprah can afford?

When Joan Collins, The Brothers Gibb (who really are Knights in White Satin), and Anya Hindmarch are getting knighted, call me a dissenter but it sort of seems like the Queen is handing out Grand Cross stars right and left. Does she pick up the medals in the bulk aisle at Costco?

Sir Bono sounds like a fancy cut of bone-in meat at a steakhouse. Damn—ahem, Dame—Kylie Minogue apparently nabbed the Order of the British Empire for her "services to music." David Beckham, OBE? More like OMG. I think Henry Winkler is the bomb, but I don't see how the "thumbs up" merits a knighthood for the Fonz.

Your Majesty: I know it's fun to have some hip playmates who will show up at state functions wearing inappropriate clothing and serenade you with a rousing rendition of "Can't Get You Outta My Head," but you don't have to buy your way into the cool-kid crowd. Unless one of these celebrities figures out how to slay a dragon—and I'm not talking about kicking a mean drug habit or getting a full sleeve tattoo of Grendel—put down the medals and pick up the phone. I'm sure they'd come for the night.

(photo: blogs.sfweekly.com)

Dangerously polite motorists

Scene: An outrageously hip woman (i.e. me) is waiting to cross the street mid-block. She’s waiting patiently, scouting out traffic to her left and right. She sees an opening after the next two cars to her left. Suddenly, the first car on her left brakes and motions for her to cross the street.

Guess what the pedestrian does?

She ducks for cover! Because the driver behind that braking car slams on HIS brakes and narrowly avoids rear-ending the polite bonehead. Plus, she’s slightly chagrined to be drawing all this vehicular attention when she was perfectly happy to wait until the traffic cleared.

And...SCENE.

I’ve wanted to punch these menaces to motorized society for a long time. Dumbasses are so busy looking forward through their windshield that they fail to look in their rear-view mirror at the pile-up they could potentially be creating. I’m not in any hurry. I’m not jogging in place or fidgeting. I’m clearly lazy; otherwise, I’d be trotting to the corner and jaywalking against the light within the white lines of the crosswalk.

When these Fail Earnharts slow for me, I want to reach through the open driver’s side window, grab the back of their head, and slam it against the dashboard, replicating the impact they’ll feel if the motorist behind them isn’t paying attention and rams into their mookmobile. That’s what I call driver’s ed.

What seemingly polite gesture do you want to smack the shit out of?

(photo: kentuckyaccidentnews.com)

Last-minute cancellations

Things happen. Viruses rear their ugly heads at the most inopportune time. Food poisoning, bad day at work, a hangnail, a new episode of Glee—shit comes up. And while this blog may be evidence to the contrary, I think I’m a pretty understanding gal. I don’t mind if you cancel because you were felled by a migraine (in fact, I did this a couple of days ago).

Just don’t make a habit of it.

But when you bail on me yet again an hour before a concert and leave me with an extra ticket, I am not quite so forgiving. When you blow off my party with a wuss text as things are getting under way, it’s not okay. When canceling late in the game becomes the rule rather than the exception, you either need a full medical workup and are possibly contagious or you’re just fucking lame.

Either way, not cool.

Man up. You made a commitment so unless you're suddenly puking in the ER, show up. Wear a face mask, stuff cough drops and Kleenex in your pocket, do what you have to do. Just don’t keep opting out at the 11^th hour, or I might have to opt out of our future plans to be friends.

(photo: onefinephilly.blogspot.com)

Sidewalk cyclists

I’ve been noticing something around my neighborhood. I can’t really help it, seeing as I have to weave and dodge, even when I’m on the supposed safety of the sidewalk.

Out of nowhere, a biker yells, “Left!” as he whizzes past me, narrowly avoiding a tree bed. He, however, cannot avoid my tire ire.

The thing that really chafes more than Lance Armstrong's saddle sores and sets me off on an epic tour de rants? There’s a bike lane on my street! What’s next, you greedy Spandexed asshelment? Pumping up your tires in my flowerbed?

Cyclists want it both ways. They want to right to ride on the street—which they have, by the way. In fact, cyclists are legally supposed to ride in the road. But they also reserve the right to jump the sidewalk and draft behind a stroller when the mood hits. Sorry, but it’s called a sideWALK, not a sidePEDAL. Keep your wheels on the road. If you continue to want your cake and eat it too, you are destined to either find yourself on a 4-wheeler in the ER or be named as the defendant in a hit-and-pedal. Regardless, you will shoot to the top of my cycle list.

Renewal of wedding vows

Thanks to everyone who submitted their punch lists. While there was some overlap, I was staggered by the variety of tasty peeves that exist, and heartened by the ginormous community of kindred malcontents. I might steal some ideas from these lists for future posts and always feel free to send in one or many things you want to punch in the face. I’m glad to showcase your many irritations.

Anyway, onto shooting fish in a barrel…

I watch the Real Housewives of New York City. In fact, I’ve updated the game of “Fuck-Marry-Kill” and instead, play “Maim-Torture-Kill” when watching this hot mess of designer insane. The crazy-eyed queen of RHONY is Ramona Singer, who after 17 years of marriage to Mario, has decided to renew her vows as part of her “renewal” theme this season. (While I know she’s using this catchphrase to hawk her Tru Renewal face cream, it instead makes me think of Logan’s Run. I really wish she’d go to Carousel and get zapped with the kind of laser that kills rather than treats broken capillaries. Needless to say, she often gets my “kill” shot.)

Anyway…the renewal of their wedding vows is irking me more than Simon’s red vinyl pants. A wedding is supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Doing it twice with the same person is just self-indulgent and frankly gross. Renewing your vows is antithetical to what the original vows are: vows. You don’t need to make them again. The original vows didn’t expire.

And renewing them is no guarantee. They have the smell of “jump the shark” desperation on them. Jon and Kate got hair plugs and a fresh baby bird haircut, respectively, when they renewed their vows in Hawaii, and we all know how well that turned out.

Or maybe all is right in your married world, and you just want to do something with that closetful of money. Here’s an idea: Throw a party, give a toast, but don’t fucking call in an officiant and don’t wear white. The gig is up. Maybe I’m reading too much into the folks who thought the wedding was so nice, they did it twice. Perhaps renewing your vows is nothing more than an excuse for dreckitude hair. Heidi Klum went with cornrows; Celine Dion went with a “Cleopatra meets Ann Boleyn by way of Valley of the Dolls” look. Last time I checked, Halloween and your wedding day are not interchangeable, unless maybe you’re Elvira.

Tell your spouse how much you love him or her, save the catering fee, and don't ask me to be a bridesmaid again, or else I'm going to have to renew my commitment to punching you in the face. Isn't a fist sandwich the appropriate gift for a 17th anniversary? No? It is now.

(photo: http://bit.ly/15GdIy, guardian.co.uk)

Cyber PDA

I think it’s sweet that you love each other, I really do. I’m happy to see status updates, tweets, and blog posts about your courtship, engagement, a trip, a wedding. Not only can I handle it, I’m heartened by it.

But my support of your relationship does not mean I want to be slimed with your cyber makeout sessions, oversharing, and sweet nothings all goddamned day. Tweeting about how much you miss your flaxen-haired beauty—even though you’ve only been apart an hour (which I know because you tweeted that too)—or updating your Facebook status to detail what an incredible night you had with your Sweetpea or Huggy Bear makes me, in this order, 1) roll my eyes, 2) choke back my breakfast, and 3) want to share the love. Specifically, I dream of playing cupid, pulling out a crossbow, and piercing you through the heart, or at least your fingers.

Take a note from Shakespeare: Speak low if you speak love. In other words, keep it in your pants and send your true love an e-mail. We don’t want to see that sap. That’s what porn, Jane Austen novels, and Reese Witherspoon movies are for, duh.

(photo: mywedding.com)

People who don’t leave voicemails

Do you think, amongst my superpowers, that I can read minds? Did you accidentally ring me when you sat on your Blackberry? Are you an Amish child who thinks, like a camera, my phone will steal your soul? Are you trying to be all mysterious and shit so that my curiosity will be piqued? What the eff do you want?

If you’ve already left me a voicemail, don’t trouble yourself with another rambler. But if you are just calling and, in essence, hanging up on me and my recorded message, don’t assume I’m going to call you back. If you actually want something, you can damn well leave me a message.

I know a lot of folks who are masters of the passive-aggressive hang-up. When I do answer the phone, they often start off with something akin to, “Oh, you’re finally home!” which translates to “Wow, you actually picked up on poor me, who calls and calls but clearly has an ungrateful, lame friend who I shouldn’t even bother with.”

That message came through, loud and clear. If only you were as eager to leave an actual voicemail, our communication would be crystal clear.

(photo: larryfire.wordpress.com)

Cyberstalking

It was hard enough to get over someone when my options were limited, way back when all I could do was drive or ride my bike by an ex’s apartment or parents’ house (stalking starts early in my family). These days, my obsession runs unchecked. Even if I find the strength to unfollow or unfriend Alexandre Dumbass, he often has a public profile, which presents a problem when I’m feeling vulnerable or having a bad day. One click is all it takes to find out that the dude is coping with the loss of me by pretending he’s doing great and that he’s moved on.

I know better.

In my daily drive-bys, I read between the lines. A status update that says, “Mass Effect + new flat screen = srsly awesome“ means “I can’t remember the last time I showered; I’m that depressed.” A tweet that proclaims, “This new IPA is blowin’ my mind!!!!” translates as “I’m drowning my heartbreak in beer and since I’m drinking alone, I’ll tell 1,000 of my closest tweeple.” Then there's the guy I met on an online dating site. I thought we had serious chemistry and loads in common. Then after yet another marathon date, he goes MIA…until I see that he's back in the match.com saddle and has been active within the last hour. He's "online now!" at 3 pm, 4 pm, 5 pm, 2 am… Around 7 am, I see he's changed his profile and added a few more pictures, one of which I took!

I wish I could stop the men madness but as long as there’s a wireless signal, I’m caught in the web. I don't want to punch my iPhone or laptop, so I'm just going to have to keep fixating on (i.e. adoring) my misguided (i.e. temporary) ex-boyfriends from 500 feet (my fingertips) and hope that they go offline, or at least change their settings to "private."

(photo: lisasteadman.com)

Winks

I’ve dipped my toe into the internet dating waters and whenever a guy “winks” at me, I go off the deep end. Are you too lazy to write to me? Too busy? Tongue-tied in the face of all of my splendor? Too fucking bad. Grow a pair and send me a real note.

It doesn’t need to be an 8,000-word missive (I’ve gotten one of those). It doesn’t need to lay open your soul, telling me how much I remind you of your ex-wife (yep, got that too). It just needs to say hi, be real, and, if you’ve got an extra 5 minutes, tell me something about yourself or why you liked my profile.

But whatever you do, don’t “wink” at me, you puss.

Winks make me batshit crazy. To me, they scream, “I care enough to send the very least.” Do you think I’m going to be so taken with your snapshot (the one where you’ve clearly cropped out your last girlfriend or draped your cat artfully over your girth) that I’ll go straight to your profile and become inspired to initiate the conversation?

Dream on, Lothari-NO.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” you say? You’re absolutely right. I have absolutely no idea what I’m missing. However, I do know what you’re missing: courage and perhaps a time-management system that allows you to spend more than 10 seconds contacting a potential love interest. Wink at me again and I’ll give you a response. How about “This person has blocked you from her profile?” Get some game or get lost.

(photo: www.zazzle.ca/)

Blabbing on red-eyes

You’ve made your connection, and he’s in the aisle seat. It’s like some sort of dreamy Sofia Coppola movie and you’re the romantic lead. You’re enjoying pillow talk with a sexy stranger who may be your true love, or at least your ticket into the mile-high club. Sorry to interrupt, but can you do me a favor?

Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

I don’t care what time zone we are currently flying over—my internal clock and my wristwatch say it’s 3:30 in the morning. I took this flight and an Ambien because I’m good at sleeping on planes. I have my rituals: I don’t drink caffeine, I listen to Joni Mitchell laced with Sufjan Stevens, I wrap myself in my giant knitted shawl.

All I ask is that a bratty toddler not kick my seat and that you Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

Even with headphones on, I can hear you yammering away with your life story and relationship history (which, from the sounds of it, you might want to keep to yourself until the third date; just a thought).

When I ask if you could lower your voices because every other single person on the plane is trying to sleep (as evidenced by the pitch-black cabin and profusion of navy blankets, sleep masks, and earbuds), you stare at me as if I just killed your dog. I explain that of course you have the right to talk but that I’m just asking for some courtesy of your fellow travelers. Bring the volume down or I’m going to descend into madness and punch you in the face. Forget about true love’s kiss from Prince Charming in 18C. Your kiss is on my fist when they turn out the lights.

What passengers have you wanted to kick the crap out of during a flight?

(photo: flickr.com/photos/wenzday01/3357083325/)