A letter to the boy I sat beside on the way home from London

Ok, I just reread this before I posted it and decided it was kind of gross. Read it at your own risk.

Dear young teenage boy,

While I appreciate your ability to air drum along with whatever loud music you were listening to, and I really admire how you can swing your head from side to side like Stevie Wonder, oblivious to the window and my head that kept getting in your way. Unfortunately, your talents started to loose their sparkle when my knees became part of your drum kit. Thank you for stopping your performance before my tits became cymbals.

It is a shame, really, that I did not enjoy the hour and a half of nail bitting, followed by nose picking and then ear wax flicking when the batteries in your ipod died. Perhaps I would have found it more enticing if you hadn’t obsessively repeated the process to the point where I was dry heaving and unable to catch my breath. My outward display of disgust was the worst possible offence to your delicate nature and you felt as though you had to one up me by beginning to randomly pick at your acne ridden face. Very little in this world will ever be able to top that joyful throat gurgle you uttered when you popped a nice and juicy one. Although nails on a chalkboard come in at a close second. While I understand your need to answer the age old question of what snot, ear wax and pimple pus tasted like all together, you did not need to take that journey with an unwilling audience.

Thank you for reminding me why I must bring a larger bottle of Purel with me when I travel.

Sincerely,

Nicole

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