I'm not a nice person when I fly. From curbside to baggage claim the entire travel experience has become so hostile towards passengers that it's every traveler for themselves. If you don't carve out your own slice of sanity, it will be taken away, screened, checked, charged extra for, and probably even lost without so much as an “I’m sorry.”  

On a flight to Fort Lauderdale, Delta Airlines had me slotted for a middle seat. Two hours crammed in between strangers? Nope. Sorry. Not gonna happen. Let me be clear. I don't even want to sit that closely in between people I know for two hours. My germophobia and claustrophobia would reach a critical mass that would have me reaching for an airsick bag, provided they’re still free. If not, game on. 

You see what I mean? That's not who I am. Under normal circumstances I would never consider projectile vomit a viable means of protest, but the deteriorating quality of the flying experience has made it just as valid as an angry complaint letter.  

When I fly I prefer the left side, aisle, exit row seat. I'm right handed so the left side aisle gives my right elbow the freedom it needs to write, type, and be hit with the beverage cart.  The exit row has the allure of extra leg room and no children under 15. 

The airlines, in their ongoing plan to raise the level of customer service and class warfare, now sell exit row seats. That’s an extra $29 on top of the $463 that I paid for my second class… I mean coach class ticket. So for a measly $492 I got to choose a seat that I hoped would make me moderately comfortable. 

This is perplexing since sitting in the exit row also means you agree to help out in case of an emergency. In my mind this changes me from passenger to employee. Shouldn't they be paying me? Note to self: call my union rep. 

I got on the plane, stowed my bag, sat in my seat, put on my seat belt, and all was right with the world. It didn’t last, but you knew it wouldn’t. A couple got onboard. He had the middle seat on my left and she had the aisle on my right. They asked me if I would mind moving so they could sit together. 

After my $492 investment into Delta Airlines flight 2379 I absolutely did mind. I briefly considered following the airline's lead and offering to sell the couple my seat. Shall we start the bidding at $50? What's it worth to sit next to your beloved?

But I didn’t want to switch seats. The aisle seat on the right would have me rubbing my writing elbow with a very large man who sounded like he was single-handedly trying to bring back the bubonic plague. His cough was loud, constant and contagious. How I wished we could have stowed him and his germs in the overhead bin.

I politely declined to change seats with the couple and hoped they would understand. From the looks of things it seemed like their relationship could benefit from some time apart. Three hours and 21 minutes seemed about right. It would give them time to think things over. Like, why did she, at 5’nothing, have the aisle seat and he at 6'3 have the middle seat? Is that love? I think not. Clearly their relationship is doomed.

But when we arrived in Fort Lauderdale, I saw them eagerly take each other’s hands as they strolled through the concourse. Their time apart in the air had brought them closer together. My refusal to change seats with them was indeed a good thing for everyone. I guess I’m a nicer person when I travel than I thought.

Suicide May be Painless but Writing the Note is Excruciating  - 

Don Cornelius, the creator and host of Soul Train, passed away recently. I say passed away because how he died depends on your point of view. To the general public he committed suicide. To the African-American community at large he did not. Acknowledging suicide challenges our misguided belief that black folks don’t get depressed, we just get angry. You put an “H” on your chest and just handle it, whatever it is. The slaves made it through without therapy right? 

So because we don’t do that, we also don’t get help. Instead some folks opt to self medicate: drugs, alcohol, Jesus, or a really cute pair of shoes. Okay, a lot of shoes. As a culture we seem to collectively subscribe to the theory that it’s better to look good than to feel good. So chances are, the better I look, the worse I feel. 

Despite the evidence, many insist that Don Cornelius couldn’t possibly have committed suicide. He didn’t leave a note. No note, no suicide. But do you have any idea how hard it is to write a suicide note?  

When I decided to give it a try I was confronted not only with what to write but how to write it. I wanted to go traditional: pen and paper, but much to my horror, I discovered I didn’t have any paper. I had my trusty pocket Moleskine journal full of to do lists, random jokes, and dark side of the Force thoughts, but I didn’t want anyone reading that. They’d wonder why I hadn’t offed myself sooner. 

I had no paper because for the most part I’ve gone digital. I wish I could say this was out of concern for the environment. But I’m from the 80s. I don’t give a frak about the environment. “Ask not what you can do for your environment. Ask what your environment can do for you.” 

I thought about buying some paper but the price for a single pad at the drug stores in Manhattan is outrageous. $3.99? Seriously? And you can’t even buy just a single pad of paper at Staples. They’re sold in packs of 10. No one’s reading a 1,000-page suicide note. Anything over five is a manifesto. 

And so, I decided to type my note. That would allow me to indulge my control freak, perfectionist tendencies. I could write, edit, and spell check to my heart’s content ... if only I could pick the right font. Arial is too plain, Times Roman is too boring and Courier is too serial killer. It should go without saying that Comic Sans is just flat out wrong. It was then I remembered that I have an iPhone 4S now. I could dictate my note to Siri. But then she and I don’t always see eye to eye. Did I really want her second guessing and auto correcting me? “Damn it, Siri! I said, ‘suicide’ not ‘slip and slide’.”




When I finally got down to composing my note I got stuck. I’ve never written a suicide note before. There’s a lot of pressure to get it right because it’s not just any note. It’s your last note. It’s your chance to get things off your chest, explain how you feel, and most of all to tell the people who matter most, why. I think you owe them a little more than, “It’s not you. It’s me.” That’s kinda lame. And I wouldn’t want people to remember me as a derivative hack. 




I also didn’t want to blame anybody, per se, although I was very tempted to call out the last guy who cut me off in traffic, almost causing me to have an accident. 

“Dear Dude, Driving the 2007, two-door, black BMW last Friday night on the New Jersey Turnpike, license plate number GTD 6437: You were the last straw. I hope you get gout.”

Have I ever seriously considered committing suicide? Absolutely. The first time was when I was 15 years old. Why? Because I was 15 years old. What stopped me? I was afraid my parents would be really mad at me if I did that. Only a teenager would think about the trouble she’d get into posthumously. 




If you’re wondering, by the way, why I’d want to commit suicide now, gee, I don’t know. It’s Thursday? Ultimately, my answer doesn’t matter. If you’ve ever thought about it, just insert your answer here. It will mean more to you than anything I can say. If you’ve never considered it, then there’s nothing I can say that would make you understand except that ... well... I’m not 15. What stops me? Honestly, sometimes not that much. Let’s just say I haven’t found the right font, there’s a shoe sale this weekend, and I’ve got at least one more Soul Train stroll left in me.