Anthony makes my shitlist

 If I’ve decided I don’t like you, there is very little you can do to change my mind. In fact, any efforts on your part may only be making matters worse. Settle in for a bumpy ride.

Generally I’m pretty easy to get along with. Don’t talk shit about my friends or family, don’t touch my food without asking first, don’t flake out on an agreed upon engagement once I’m already seated at the event by myself and for fuck’s sake, don’t get caught lying to me. I mean, there are roughly 40 other offenses and 25 minor infractions, but these come to mind first. Although, now that I’ve said that, I feel I have to mention loud chewing. If you are one of those people, you and I cannot co-mingle. I will kill you and it will suck. I’ll go to jail and end up a drug addicted toothless lesbian trading sexual favors for Top Ramen, tampons, homemade booze, and heroin.

I’ve done some traveling recently for family reasons. I love traveling. Correction: I love traveling when I enjoy my company. I love my husband; my traveling did not change that. My 11 yr. old however, well, there were days that I woke up thinking ‘this is going to be the day that I punch an 11 yr. old.’  There is something inherent about travel that brings about the absolute worst in my child; something that tells him he must test every boundary. Every day it was a game of 'Operation.' Strategically he would provoke all of my annoyances and wait for my head to explode. I pictured myself the animated character in the game, every time Curran got too close to a nerve my face would light up bright red. Fuck that kid.

I can’t write off my child no matter how many of my infractions and offenses he criminally spikes like footballs. Wanna know who I can write off? Sure you do. I can write off the preppy douchenozzle who was seated next to me on the plane on my way home from Minneapolis. I’m going to call him Anthony. I don’t know why. He looked like an Anthony and if I’m being real, I’ve only ever known one cool Anthony. So, there! Anthony, on my flight home from Minneapolis, you are a bag of limp dicks.

Limp dick Anthony had an aisle seat. I get that having an aisle seat is like winning the fucking flight-seating lottery, but sometimes you have to not be a selfish cunt.

My husband, my son, and I walk onto the plane like gangstas. No we didn’t, we were fucking tired and bitchy. Okay, I was tired and bitchy. My son was a bouncy little shit. I’ve never wanted to Hannibal Lecter someone so badly. If they had offered face masks on the plane, I would have paid any price. Anyway, we’re cruising down the walkway to our seats. We already know that we are going to be across the aisle from each other; 2 on one side, and 1 on the other. I figured that once someone saw our adorable family they would offer to switch seats so that we could all sit together. That would be the human and decent thing to do. Normally, I believe that would have happened, but we had Anthony in his creased Chinos and checkered shirt. More on all of that soon, I have so much shit to talk.

It would probably have been very easy to politely ask this twat if he wouldn’t mind switching so that we might all be seated together. Was I even sure I wanted that? But instead I chose to play the manipulative card. I looked at my husband as we seated ourselves and said: “Bye, honey…” hoping to pull at the android's heartstrings. Zero response. He couldn’t even be bothered to look up from his Skymall magazine. Come on, dude! I’ve read that piece of shit. There isn’t anything in there.

I seated my spawn next to the window because even though I was upset, I wouldn’t wish the kind of torture that sitting next my kid for the next 3 hours would be upon anyone.This proved to be a mistake. For 3 hours Curran lifted the window shade and closed the shade, lifted the shade and closed the shade – for the w-h-o-l-e  f-u-c-k-i-n-g ride. I’m seated between these two numb-nuts wondering what atrocity I had committed in a former life that has me serving my penance in this fashion. I don’t think Anthony is breathing, this further confirms my belief that he is inhuman. I’m eyeballing his movements from my periphery. I know he can feel it. Good.

I can see his phone. This dude apparently never checks his emails, his Twitter notifications, or does any updates on his applications. So, I’ve established he’s rude, he’s probably a shitty friend and/or employee if he’s not responding to emails, he’s egotistical if he’s too good to check his Twitter notifications, and he’s lazy if he can’t update his applications. This is what I mean when I say that once I’ve decided I don’t like you, there is no coming back. Nothing Anthony can do will ever be right. In fact, his hair is ridiculous too. I want make sure he knows that I’m still married, so I talk over him, across the aisle to my husband. Ya know, like ya do.

I can’t say it was intentional, but I may have taken my socks off and on 2 or 3 times throughout the course of the flight. I may also have gone to the bathroom even though I didn’t have to go. I definitely put on headphones and sang out loud just as he was falling asleep. Fuck you, Anthony. Don’t fuck with newly married women who’ve just had to go through some emotionally raw family shit AND are traveling with pre-teens. You clearly don’t know our struggle.

I’ve been away from venting for a while. Our family has suffered a great loss and I have not much felt like laughing or writing or even sharing. I’m beginning to feel better. By better, I mean to say bitchy and rant-worthy. Hope you’ll stick around as I get my writing legs back.