This past Monday, I flew home from Chicago to New York.
Flying home. I like the aisle seat because I have more room, but I hate when people walk by and invade my personal space. #PleaseGetYourAssOutOfMyFace
Now, if you use Twitter, you'll know the "#" at the end is called a hashtag, and using it makes the text immediately following it a link. Most people use hashtags so others can easily search for similar content, but some people use them to make a point or crack a joke about whatever it is they're talking about, almost like a punch line.
Right after I sent this tweet, a guy stood up to get something out of the overhead bin above me, this time sticking his front in my face. This prompted me to send another tweet:
Reading this today it probably would've made more sense to say:
But you get what I was trying to say—the only thing between this man's penis and my face were his pants.
Right after I sent this, the plane hit major turbulence, so I closed my computer because I was scared. While burying my face in my neighbor's jacket (yes, I'm fully aware that I had now become the space-invader), it dawned on me that if the plane went down, my last words to the world had to do with giving a stranger a blow job. And everybody would read them because, let's be honest, a plane crash would make news. Big news. People and journalists from all over the world would be wondering what happened right before the plane went down, analyzing any and all information, including my tweets. I can see it now...
Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann would be talking about the crash on the Today show, wondering whether or not the passengers knew the plane was in trouble, and some expert would come on and say, “Funny you should ask because a young lady named Karyn Bosnak was pretty active on Twitter right before the plane went down."
"What was the tone of her messages?" Matt would ask. (He'd be more concerned about me than the others because he's interviewed me twice before and we had a real connection.) "Did she seem frightened?"
"Not exactly," the expert would say. "She said that while she fancies the aisle seat because it gives her more room, she doesn't like it when people stick their butts in her face. Then she commented on how easy it would be to give everyone a blow job."
Matt would sit in stunned silence, unsure of what to say.
And the expert... he'd continue talking because he wouldn't know what else to do. "Her exact tweet was, 'If it weren't for your zipper, I could blow you.'"
Matt would nod—what else could he do?—then turn back to the camera. "There you have it. 'If it weren't for your zipper, I could blow you.' The last words from Flight 509 to LaGuardia."
Listen, I'm glad the plane didn't go down, but something dawned on me. I could walk outside and get hit by a bus today, and whatever I last wrote on my blog or Twitter or Facebook—those would be my last words. Perhaps I should talk about something a little more important than blow jobs.
Oh, Jesus—who am I kidding?
If the last words I utter are about performing felatio on a plane, then so be it. It's who I am.
"If it weren't for your zipper I could blow you."
I'm proud of those words, so repeat them all you want.
Just don’t put them on my headstone.