AITA for Wanting the Plane to Crash Just So This Flight Would End?
Look, I know the five stages of grief are supposed to be Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. But after spending the last four hours trapped in a pressurized aluminum tube at 35,000 feet, I’m pretty sure the FAA needs to add a sixth stage: Homicidal Ideation Directed at the Person in 14C.
Let me set the scene. It’s a Tuesday. I’m already running on three hours of sleep and a gas station energy drink that tastes like battery acid and regret. I booked this flight six months ago—six months of planning, of telling my boss I’d be “unavailable,” of psyching myself up to be a functioning member of society for exactly 72 hours. I paid for my seat. I checked in exactly 24 hours before departure. I did everything right. And what does the universe give me? A middle seat between a guy who clearly hasn’t discovered the concept of “indoor voice” and a woman who treats the armrest like it’s the freaking Maginot Line.
But let’s rewind. The real clownery started before I even got on the plane.
I arrive at the gate at 5:45 AM for my 6:30 AM flight. The gate agent looks like she’s been awake since 2003. She’s got the thousand-yard stare of someone who has seen too many “emotional support peacocks.” I hand her my boarding pass. She scans it. Her face does that little micro-twitch that every frequent flyer knows means your life is about to get worse.
“Sir, we’ve had a last-minute equipment change. Your seat has been reassigned.”
Cool. Cool cool cool. So I go from a nice, safe aisle seat near the front to 34E. The new Gate 34. Row 34. Seat E. For “Euthanasia, please.”
I get to my row. The guy in the window seat—let’s call him “Kevin”—has already claimed the overhead bin for his single carry-on that is clearly three inches too big for the sizer. You know the type. He’s wearing noise-canceling headphones before takeoff. He’s already got his laptop out. He’s the main character, and we’re all just extras in his LinkedIn profile picture.
The middle seat is occupied by “Becky.” Becky has already established the armrest treaty: her elbow is on mine, her bag is on my foot, and her hair is somehow in my mouth. I don’t know how. I don’t want to know.
And then comes the boarding process. You ever notice how people treat the jet bridge like it’s the starting line of the Hunger Games? They’re all standing up, pressed against the gate like they’re about to storm the beaches of Normandy. For what? The plane isn’t going anywhere without you. There are assigned seats. You are not going to get a better seat. You are not going to get a free upgrade by standing up three minutes earlier. You’re just blocking the aisle and giving me a front-row seat to your poor life choices.
But I’m the asshole, right? Because I’m not smiling. Because I didn’t want to make small talk about the weather in Denver. Because when the flight attendant asked if I wanted a snack, I whispered, “I want to be consumed by the void.”
We take off. The seatbelt sign dings off. And the circus begins.
Kevin immediately reclines his seat. All the way. I’m not even mad. I’m impressed. The man has no shame. He’s got his seat in my lap. I can smell his shampoo. I can read his email over his shoulder. He’s booking a rental car. Great. Hope you enjoy your Nissan Versa, Kevin. I hope the check-engine light comes on at a rest stop in Nebraska.
Becky, meanwhile, has decided that this flight is the perfect time to take a video call. On speaker. In a quiet cabin. She’s talking to her mom. Loudly. About her cousin’s wedding. I know the dress code. I know the flower arrangements. I know that the groom’s brother is “a little weird.” I know all of this, and I didn’t consent.
I look around. The guy across the aisle is giving me a look that says, “We are in this hell together, brother.” The woman two rows up is reading a book called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.” Ironic.
The flight attendant comes by with the drink cart. I ask for a Diet Coke. She says, “We only have Pepsi.”
I’m not exaggerating when I say I felt something snap. A little piece of my soul floated up to the overhead bin and died next to Kevin’s oversized roller bag.
So I’m sitting there. No legroom. No armrest. No dignity. The guy in front of me has his seat so far back that I’m basically doing a leg press against the tray table. The guy next to me is conducting a business negotiation on speakerphone. The woman next to him is eating a tuna sandwich. A tuna sandwich. On a plane. In 2024. This is a war crime, and I’m ready to testify at The Hague.
And that’s when I start to spiral. I start thinking: What if the engine just… stopped? Just for a second. Just enough to get everyone’s attention. Not a crash. Not a fire. Just a little “hey, maybe shut up and appreciate the miracle of flight” moment. I’m not saying I want to die. I’m saying I want everyone else to feel the same level of discomfort I feel. I want Kevin to realize that his AirPods won’t save him from the void. I want Becky to understand that her tuna sandwich is not a personality trait.
I look at the emergency exit. I think about the slide. I think about the sweet release of an unscheduled landing in a cornfield somewhere in Iowa, where the local
Final Thoughts
Having spent years watching airlines cycle through boom-and-bust, it’s clear that the industry’s real fragility lies not in fuel prices or pandemics, but in its stubborn refusal to treat passengers as anything more than cargo with credit cards. The article underscores that while carriers chase efficiency through code-share agreements and razor-thin margins, they consistently undervalue the one asset that could save them in a crisis: genuine customer trust. Ultimately, the future of air travel won’t be determined by newer planes or better loyalty apps, but by whether airlines can finally reconcile their bottom line with the basic human need for dignity at 35,000 feet.