Dear insecure Asian guy with the incredibly indulgent girlfriend:
Be glad you and your incessant nattering were on the way to the Little Rock airport from Houston and not the Houston airport from SeaTac because I seriously would have killed you had I had to listen to one more instant of your non-stop pointless loud chatter.
You have a test coming up? Seriously? With differential equations? You're worried about getting a company off the ground? You think breaking even after two years is good? Your much-too-attractive-gf didn't pay half on your trip to Burlingame? You took a shower at 7:30 a.m.? You like her shirt? You got a paycheck for a couple hundred dollars recently? You are really good at that game you didn't bother to mute and left the explosion sounds up really high for? You haven't played it for like a year? You like building your own computers (pause) from Dell?
You know, I felt, momentarily bad for you when you were talking very loudly about how you felt insecure in situations around other people, though as the plane was taking off and you kept talking during take off (and really, who does that?) about how your English wasn't so good (could have fooled me! And I heard a lot of your English!) I really thought you completely missed the point of why your interactions with people might be rocky. But then I went back to hating you almost but not nearly as much as the woman next to me hated you.
We are not your dreadfully indulgent girlfriend. We do not put up with having to hear about how you're interested in exploring technology and making money and that trip to Burlingame. And, come to think of it, we're not your big sister, either, where that's the expected behavior from folks like you. And neither is your gf, so don't you think maybe you should talk to her as a man to a woman rather than as a pesky know-it-all to an older sibling?
I got a pretty good look at your face, you mouth-breather with squinty eyes and a bad bowl cut. My God, you must be on the verge of making a billion bucks because your gf was cute. I am sure someday that slack-jawed mug of yours will be staring out at me from the cover of WIRED or FORTUNE or whatever. And you owe me a favor (not money, just a little appreciation) that I did not strangle you with my bare hands when you came up next to me to grab your gf's suitcase and couldn't just pull it off the luggage carousel without comment. Oh, no. "This is your suitcase, right? But it's got my name on it. You put your name on it? They must have flipped it. Do you think my suitcase will come out with your name on it? I bet your name is on my suitcase ..." And so on.
Girl, either you're a very prospective golddigger or a saint or you need to wake up and smell the constant spume of unbroken breath from this guy. I know you can do better. I also hope you don't marry him, since from his nattering I understand there is some sort of financial barrier to your actually agreeing to do it. You just seem, even as a golddigger, a little too good for him.
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