Dear Guy-sitting-next-to-me-on-the-plane,

You have got to be kidding me.

You wanna know why I don't want to talk to you?

Well, just to name few reasons: (1) you made mention more than once of your desire to physically harm all hippies, all Yankees, any guy that wears a pink shirt, all persons from California, and all persons from Oklahoma; (2) one of your life goals is to "talk to every person in Texas" (What?); (3) you prefaced more than four statements with, "This is going to make me sound racist, but..."; (4) as you got drunker, you edged your legs and arms closer to me, until I, trying desperately to just not have to touch you, found myself plastered against the wall of the plane, which was I guess a good thing; because (5) if I had been taking up my whole seat, you would have spilled your glass of whiskey on me and not just on two-thirds of my seat; (6) you stared at me while I was reading my book, and asked me each time I underlined something or made a note why I was doing that; (7) you stared at me for minutes at a time while I watched a movie and yelled loudly at me "Why are you laughing at me?" every time I smiled at the movie; (8) you woke me up to ask me "Do you prefer Mandy or Amanda?" and when I replied, "I'm not sure what you're talking about," you heatedly responded, with your face an inch from mine despite my desperate attempts to back away, "Listen, Erin, I want to see you again. I like hanging out with you, and I want to see you next week."

I don't like "hanging out with you," and I don't want to see you next week.

Very sincerely,
Ellen