Dear Sleepyhead

How do you do it? You are thousands of feet up in the air in a cabin full of strangers and all their varied germs; the cabin pressure is doing weird things to your tympanum, and those of the bawling babies. All those pretty airhostesses parade their pins… and all you do is sleep?

Did you know that the lady sitting in front of you went into premature labour while you performed the Snore Sonata in zzz sharp? It was a boy, and no, he was not named after you- the man who made his first few moments of life sound like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

I wish a lifetime of narcolepsy upon you.

Hellish pits of envy consume me while you sleep, with the smile of a buffoon. I twist and squirm, to find my sleep-spot in my cramped economy-class seat.

Do you know how many times I bitch-slapped you (sadly, telepathically) while you snored like a buzzsaw?

And then you wake up. And chat me up. Only to tell me all about your dog’s bowel movements?

I don’t care. Go back to sleep.

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