1) I am hysterically funny

2) Some words are rather negative.

ROPG is going in a negative direction. Must change.

Considering starting a fresh blog, as this is tainted with anger and scorned friendships.

Maybe something like “Sex & A Smaller City”? It would be SASCy (instead of sassy- too much of a reach?) and I would probably be the sole author.

Thoughts, fans?

The Little Box That Shows Me What People Googled in Order to Get to Pourgirls

But whatever, that still leaves at least a few loyal fans to account for today’s viewership, I think. Or one loyal fan whose page wouldn’t load properly and had to keep hitting refresh. I don’t know.

Anyways, I haven’t blogged in a while because I kind of lost my spirit there for a bit. Not trying to get all Elton-John-Barney-queer-shit on you or anything, but after burning bridges with half the people on my speed dial and reading some negative thoughts on PourGirls all within 2 weeks, I was too down in the dumps to do that bootstrap quote thing and get out there and be a Blogstar.

But remember when that meteor hit the earth and royally fucked all the dinosaurs? And seemingly killed every living thing on Earth? To the casual observer of our planet at that time, it would have seemed hopeless. No life could resurface on Earth. But little did they know that one tiny protozoa or some shit like that clung on for dear life, and then started feeding on like pond scum or whatever, and you hit fast forward and then BOOM we’re back. That’s my analogy of what happened with me. All spirit was not lost, and with a few weeks time, a few good friends, and a lot of champagne, I regained my lame little inner Blogstar.

And a little note to the model-UN-loser, jock-strap-sniffing yuppie with no friends: I am aware that the above account is not the factual history of what happened with dinosaurs. In my whorish, “biddie” head, I am attempting to be mildly humorous. I am not a total idiot. It’s pretty obvious to everyone that you’re dealing with some residual anger which resulted from you being a perpetual nobody destined for mediocrity, but WHO THE FUCK asked you to spend all your time sticking your nose up other losers’ asses in the model UN instead of getting out to a party once in a while? Who asked you to shop in your Grandpa’s closet instead of heading over to the mall- Vineyard Vines, Express, or Banana Republic? It wasn’t me, so don’t take your anger out on me. Loyal fans who are unaware of the situation at hand, this arrogant prick decided to mock PourGirls on his blog, his blog which I actually found occasionally entertaining in the past and never said a mean peep about. He also insults my intelligence, even though he attends the same “barely top-50 institution” (his words, not mine) that I do. I tried to be sympathetic at first. I really did. I mean, this kid has clearly never seen even a remotely de-clothed female, probably not even via computer, and he’s amidst an existential crisis, as he just now seems to be realizing he is not as special as he thinks he is. This is why he couldn’t get into any of the Ivy League schools he applied to a few years back. I feel that pain- everyone has a time in their life when they have to come to terms with the fact that they are just not as special as they thought they were. Now, most of us are still in pre-school when this happens, when Sally gets the gold star and gets to be the line leader and we don’t. For others, like this tool, it takes longer, because Mommy and Daddy pay for everything for 18 years. They pay for you to be special. And then reality hits when you can’t get into Dartmouth or Yale because you aren’t that fucking special. Like I said, not my fault, so don’t take it out on me.

If you don’t like RantsofPourGirls, then don’t fucking click on the link to it. Maybe they don’t teach that at “barely top-50 institutions”?

Also, I love when people talk shit about me or are rude to me and expect me to not say anything. I don’t know what about me gives off that timid vibe, but people never expect me to turn around when they are mumbling about me and make a bitchy comment. Which makes my reaction that much better. As soon as I read this loser’s blog entry about PourGirls I “liked” it and proceeded to leave 1 or 2 obnoxious comments, none of which he replied to. Such a pussy.

Anyways, as you can see, spirit is back. Another part of what recently helped me to regain my zealousness for blogging was the random sudden influx of comments on my “Good Charlotte? Rant.” I randomly checked up on PourGirls and BAM I had five comments. FIVE. Like I said, I haven’t blogged/advertised in weeks. When I read them I pretty much fucking died. I seriously thought one of my friends made up five different “iluvgoodcharlotte4eva@hotmail.com”- like e-mail accounts and was just fucking with me to get me to laugh harder than I have laughed in my entire life. Check them out, they are great. Some of my favorite excerpts are:

• “For many, GC has literally saved lives.. For example, the songs Hold On, March On, Let The Music Play…”
• “I sincerely hope that one day your metabolism goes all out of wack and you become severly obese practically overnight.”
• “Your not perefect, because you are not God. He is the only one who is perfect.”
  
• “If you seriously took the time to write a blog like this, you lead a sad life.”- PSHH tell me something I don’t know.
  
• “Who the hell are you?? A supermodel??”- Yes, obviously.
• “For your information, Good Charlotte have remained together and continued to record way after your little flock of mindless sheep moved on the next big thing.”

Actually as I re-read these I am pretty sure one of my dear old friends is behind all of this. It’s too funny. You can check out the rest on the “Good Charlotte? Rant.” I should have known the haters would come sooner or later. With so many initial fans, it was only a matter of time. This is what all the rap stars are always talking about when they get angsty and sing about “hayyytaahhhhs.” I feel closer to P. Diddy now than ever before. We understand each other.

Anyways, I have plenty of material from the past few weeks that is perfectly appropriate for rants, but PourGirls cannot survive with me alone. Like I’ve said before, I can’t type fast enough to entertain the masses. So I’m moving to another blog, temporarily, until I can accumulate a few more writers. If you’re fucking awesome then send me your inaugural blog post to mybarnameislola@gmail.com. Or just Facebook inbox me it if I don’t respond quickly enough, which I most likely won’t. And you most likely know who I am anyways. If it’s funny and doesn’t talk about Justin Beiber or love or queer shit like that then I’ll bankroll you and you can be a Blogstar, and then we can rage together and I’ll come back to PourGirls. I’d like it if you were a Boston resident, or at least had a general working knowledge of the geography of Boston. We’re supposed to be ranting and pouring all over Boston, after all.

Until then, my beautiful and loyal fans, I’m taking my talents to what I once envisioned to be PourGirls’ brother-site. You can dream it, you can do it. I’ll be hanging my hat at Gettin’ Shlitzed for a while. Hope to see you all there.

My Spring Break ’11 actually turned out to be rather educational for me. I will share with you all the knowledge that I have gained on this trip, so you will not unknowingly find yourself stuck in the 9th circle of hell for a week. You are welcome.

Lola’s SB Lessons Learned

1. Don’t drive through Georgia. Or go there. Or even say Georgia. Creepiest shit ever. All the trees are in perfect lines. Driving down the road it goes house, church, church, creepy trees, forest fire, church, church, house, beauty salon in a storage unit, church, house, church, church, sign advertising midget rentals, house, church, flea market, church. Like why the fuck do they need all those churches? WHO the fuck is going to them? There’s like 4 churches per one fucking tiny ass house. Makes no sense.

2. If you ever meet anyone from Alabama, immediately start screaming ROLL TIDE!!! or risk bodily harm.

3. I can now list a whole bunch of states I would never ever live in: Georgia, Florida, Alabama, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, or Iowa. We didn’t drive through Iowa but I met some weird people from there.

4. “Stop. Sip. Don’t trip.” Do not attempt to drink while walking. You will spill all over yourself.

5. If someone cuts you in the free beer line, fucking knock them over because if you don’t say anything all their friends will cut you too.

6. Don’t expect anything you order to be accurate. Incompetence is rampant on the panhandle in FL. Also, they do not have provolone cheese. Or know what it is.

7. Don’t bring any money to the bar, because guys love to buy you a drink and then say “have a great break!” and just walk away. Nothing is expected of you, it’s great. If you are a guy, don’t go on SB unless you have some serious cash.

8. Unless you are wearing a burqa, expect to get hit on and harassed HARD. Non stop. Actually I bet not even a burqa could scare these guys off.

9. Don’t offer to be the one to leave the bar early and walk your friend home, because you will get hit and kicked, no one cares, and everyone else just brags for a week about how they were dancing on the bar all night at Coyote Ugly. Also, you will get locked out of your hotel room after this and while your friend is probs dying inside you will be homeless for 4 hours. No one will care about that either.

10. Have no one to go on SB with? Just go it alone. You’ll probs end up alone half the time anyways because everyone runs off to do unspeakable things.

11. BEADS ARE $1.00 A FUCKING PACKAGE AT IPARTY. I do not understand the fucking little piece of DNA in certain women’s genomes that tells them they need to get naked/strip/shake their ass/make ass to genital contact/perform sexual acts for a fucking string of cheap beads. How about, you don’t do that sweetheart, because I’m embarassed for you, and we’ll go to the nearest Target and I’ll buy you 5,000 for like 3 bucks. Just stop looking trashy. Please.

12. Don’t break into the pool area at 3 am chasing after the stray cat you saw from the balcony. Because Security will think you are on crack.

13. Don’t leave Boston. Ever. I could never rant and pour anywhere else, I’ve decided.

So anyways, hope that helps any future Spring Breaker out there with big dreams. The lessons being said, it really wasn’t all bad. The drive down was fun, and the first like 24 hours or so were great, and I got a few nights in there that were pretty wild. But things went from first class to coach pretty quickly. At least I can say I did the whole Spring Break thing. But never again. I am a creature of luxury. I’m only going on vaca from now on if it’s somewhere with a little class.

It just confirmed for me how much I fucking love Boston. I don’t care if the TAJ cocktails are $17 a piece and that the bars close at 2:00 AM and that Red Sox fans get violent and always get in my way and make me late for class and that they don’t sell alcohol on Sundays before noon or on Christmas. I love it. No one talks to me when I walk down the street, everyone is rude, people have IQs above 105, there are no fucking Waffle Houses, and the majority of the people know how to hold their liquor.

Oh, and there are no fucking churches. Got faith?

PCB Policy

The Classy Side of the Beach

So we’re leaving for Spring Break tomorrow. I’m pretty preoccupied with worrying about whether or not we will actually survive this, so I think we’re gonna have to put blogging on hold for a week because it comes second to me maintaining a pulse. We may throw in a trifecta post midweek but I think that’s even pushing it. But don’t fret, our beautiful and loyal fans. If we manage to survive we will blog away about our many adventures once we return to BOS.

I found out yesterday that Panama City Beach, FL is in a different time zone than MA. Panama City is already pissing me the fuck off, what with the noise ordinance and now this. Clean your shit up, PCB. Anyways, it also happens to be Daylight Savings on fucking Sunday. I still haven’t figured out whether this combination of events will put me two hours behind or even me right out? I am concerned because 1) I am OCD and need to know what time it is every second of the day, even in the middle of the night when I wake up, 2) I have a slight tendency of falling asleep after a few too many cocktails and need to properly pace myself if I want to make it to the 4 AM closing time and 3) our “Panamaniac” cards which we are forced into buying by the conspiracy of bars/clubs down there are time sensitive- I only get free drinks and free cover for like a 2 hour window, and I refuse to miss said window since I paid $40 for this fucking card.

But besides the time zone issue, and my impending sense of doom, I’m excited for this trip. If this is the end of me, I will die knowing that my final affairs have been settled (see “Sorry For Ranting. And Pouring” post) and that I’ve had a good run. No one can say I was boring. Below is one of my favorite quotes from a favorite show of mine, “Absolutely Fabulous,” that sums up what I never want my life to be like:

Eddie: Patsy. Pats. You know, like, when you are in a room or something, and you think someone is like staring at you…
Patsy: In a room?
Eddie: Or in a plane. Anywhere… anywhere… And you are sort of doing things because you think someone is looking at you.. like people are looking at you, you know?
Patsy: On a plane?
Eddie: Well, anywhere… anywhere… And then you look at them and they are just sort of.. asleep, but their head is flopped in your direction, you know? Well, I don’t want THAT to happen. I don’t want THAT to be my life, you know. The whole world asleep.

I know for certain that that is not my life, if only for the simple fact that I hate when people soberly snooze in public and I would slap them awake to make damn sure they’re looking. I think that kind of sums up my life pretty well, actually. Smack people upside the head until they pay the fuck attention, damnit.

You Can't Buy Happiness... But You Can Bloody Well Charge It.

I’ve been going to my school gym pretty regularly since this epiphany and hate every fucking second of it. What I hate even more is the fact that 85% of the girls in the gym insist on emphasizing my cherry tomato of a face by doing their god damn hair & makeup before they go lift free weights and shake their ass while stretching on the ab mats. I’m aware of how much of a fan guys are of yoga pants and 90 pound girls but while you two are schmoozin in the corner mon-sun about how to work your obliques, I’ve been sluggin miller lites and going on 3 am fast food binges so don’t mind me but I have shit to get done here. To keep myself occupied while I was running at a cool 6.5 on a 3.5 incline last night I came up with a few reasons as to why I’m never going back to that hell hole post-panama:

1. I may be alone on this one, but I literally whack the “emergency stop” magnet off of the treadmill at full sprint at least twice a work out. It is hands down the most irritating thing in the whole world and fucks everything up. On the Brightside I usually get so frustrated that I just punch the screen and leave all together because it discards my whole workout when it resets and I’m OCD when it comes to numbers like that.
2. Free weights are disgusting. They make your hands smell like fucking nickels for a week after that shit. I’ve also got a busted elbow (tommyjohn back in the glory days) which makes it even more annoying.  I’ll do my curls with handles of Caldwell’s later tonight thank you very much.
3. People insist on socializing. I mean I’m not a chatty cathy at the bar on Thursday nights so I’m really not into it when I’m about to start bleeding from the eyeballs and am trying to not cry while doing an interval sesh on the bike. Yes I’m working out, yes my face is really red, yes we’ll have the same conversation tomorrow. Now.go.the.fuck.away.
4. All my hard work is going to shit on the 24 hour ride to panama when I’m stuffing my face with sonic’s tater tots and fried pickles. The dirty south has way better unhealthy food choices than good ole Boston and I for one, have absolutely no self control. Good thing I’m too morally just to enter a wet t-shirt contest…
5. If you have a healthy enough sex life, there’s really no reason to add anymore cardio to your routine and I already established that you can do your muscle building at the bar/ whatever intramural sports you get roped into this spring. *Sad little gym girls: That’s how you know you’re flirty gym buddy got himself a winner; he’s too fucking tired to waste time at the gym with you because he’s been doing abs and back with the girl in the dorm room next to you all weekend. (same rules apply fellas: If her face isn’t red, you’re not doing it right.)

And by abs & back I really mean this:

Right in front of the Paradise is a huge gaggle of people. Upon occassion there is a large gaggle of people; last time I saw one in the middle of the day was when the Plain White Tee’s were playing there a few weeks ago. And at night, in front of that place usually gets a little crazy. But what I witnessed today was catastrophic. A HUGE group of people were lined up out front, at 1:30 pm. You know the show doesn’t start until night so these people are camped out for the long haul. When I see a gaggle, I glance up and see who happens to be playing. And what band’s name do I see but “Good Charlotte” with the words “SOLD OUT!” next to it.

While still in shock from seeing this I glance at the tour bus that is parked on the road to my left and then back to the group that is waiting in front of the Paradise, staring at the tour bus with dilated pupils and frothing mouths. Everyone in line is 75 pounds overweight, at least. A few of the most hardcore fans are girls at the very front of the line, who are sitting on the ground swaddled in bright pink and green blankets with strange cartoon animals stitched on. They have “GC” face-painted on their cheeks. Everyone in line has an eyebrow piercing. I could only clearly identify one male as I walked by in terror. If this group were standing/sitting in front of The Coop in Harvard Sq. instead of the Paradise, I would have thought they were homeless.

Now that I have painted a nice little background picture for you all, I have some rants I need to get out there, in no particular order because I’m still so confused/terrified to think clearly. WHO THE FUCK STILL CARES ABOUT GOOD CHARLOTTE? They were cool when I was in uhmm 4th grade. The year of the punk. You could maybe kind of get away with liking them in high school. But seriously, now? It’s been like 12 years, maybe more. They are not even remotely relevant anymore. I never could have dreamed I would blog about this forgotten sad little group. But these fans cared enough about them to look like idiots and camp out 8+ hours before the show.

Also, why is it always extremely overweight girls who do weird shit like this? Like overweight girls cannot let shit go. Ever. Maybe that’s a side effect of a slow metabolism? It hasn’t been long enough since we’ve heard from GC that now they can be cool again for like a year, like what’s happening with Backstreet Boys/N’Sync. This is just sad. Saddest fan base ever. These girls are gonna be the girls who are still reciting lines from Twilight in 2047 and are all over Rob Pattinson’s D when he’s like 60 and a grandpa. Give it up ladies.

One last thing: You could so tell by just the looks on these girls’ faces that they were all believing/hoping that as one of the forgettable members of Good Charlotte hopped off the tour bus, they would lock gazes, and then the GC bandmate would be instantly in love. He would slip her a backstage pass and after the show they would make out for hours and then he would propose with a ring that looks JUST like the Prince William/Kate Middleton ring and they could live happily ever after. I guess that is a hard fantasy to just let die after twelve long years. Maybe I’m the one in the wrong here? I don’t know anymore. You keep that dream alive, ladies. You can dream it, you can do it.

Below is some semblance of the image that was forever scorched onto my retina this afternoon. Thanks for listening.

Update from Lola: The above was originally posted around 2:00 PM this afternoon. At about 11:45 PM this evening, I again walked past the Paradise. It was still crawling with overweight fans hovered by the exits and the tour bus, all hoping to catch a glimpse of GC. GIVE IT THE FUCK UP you losers.

I mean, he didn’t need your help to begin with. Pauly is like 6’4”, tan, perfect amount of muscle (my subjective opinion- not too much, not too little), perfectly defined stomach (again, not too defined, not too flabby), funny as fucking hell, and a DJ. Get rid of the blowout and slap some blonde hair on that ish, and I’d be on the next flight out to Jersey with whatever it is a gal proposes to a guido with these days (Gucci sneakers? A bottle of vintage Dom. Romane Conti?)

Then MTV goes and casts him on their most popular show to date. Jackpot. As if that weren’t enough, they raise his salary exponentially by the season AND gradually give him more camera time so all of the U.S. can see how hysterically funny and charming he is. So now he’s rich AND the good guy. And NOW they’re giving him his very own spinoff show? The first spinoff of the group!?

Some MTV female producer clearly wants Pauly’s peen. Or a male producer is living vicariously through him. I don’t know. But all Pauly has to do now is just walk down the street and point at a girl and boom, roasted. I bet if he starts even trying to spit some game, the producers just jump right in and fucking spit it for him.

My question is… why Pauly D, MTV? He doesn’t need any more of your help. What about all those poor Schmoes out there who are helpless and hopeless? I saw about 20 of them this past weekend. They could have benefitted from a little MTV-notoriety and a hefty paycheck to pick up the bar tab with. Why put all your resources into your prodigy child? Spread the wealth a little. At least give Pauly a lame-o guy sidekick on this new show so he can pick up some leftovers. Have a heart. I’d be willing to host a contest on this very blog. A contest between which Boston dude gets laid the least and is most in need of some help from MTV. The chosen one gets to be Pauly D’s sidekick and cash in on the hot messes Pauly toots and boots. Besides, I bet Pauly can feel you creepin’ on his peen anyways MTV and is starting to get a little freaked out. He’s smarter than he looks. You can’t have your Golden Ticket jump ship because you got all desperate for that D.

To read the article on this click here. There are also some glorious pictures of Deena falling while dancing on stage at a Las Vegas Spring Break affair.

Just watched the latest Teen Mom and the blonde one said “sawn” instead of seen. And she stole my wedding date. Everyone knows October 16 is MY I-do-date, bitch. Also, the new Real World Las Vegas premieres tomorrow. Who the fuck is still watching the Real World?

1. Tell Everyone, and I Mean, EVERYONE, You ‘re 17

Seriously girls, underage is all the rage these days! Nothing turns on those older college guys like  Chris Hansen and the thought of dropping soap in prison cells for 25- life! Even if you’re not 17 still, tell ‘em anyways! I wanna keep the male competition fierce out there!

2. 151 Ain’t  So Bad

Whatever anyone tells you, seriously, 151 is overrated. What those spring breakers don’t know is that you’ve been practicing for your big Senior SB! All those Smirnoff Ices’ in the woods behind your high school have really gotten you prepared for the big leagues! So just chug that shit girl. I did the same my senior year of high school and let me tell you, I got the best nights sleep of my life! Whoever said E.R. beds aren’t so comfortable obviously was lying!

3. Consent Forms are a MUST.DO!

Everyone knows that crazy camera crews are all over big spring break spots! So whatever mom or your *BFF4L* or sister or whoever  told you about not consenting to be on TV- OBV a lie. They’re just trying to steal your spotlight. Seriously, when colleges say they’re looking for a “unique” individual for their school they obviously mean someone that can deep throat a banana on the mtvU stage in Cancun. So hurry up and sign that form already, law school’s waiting!

4. Talk to the Cop

Bouncers can be reaaaal meanies! So if for some reason, the guy at the door doesn’t see the resemblance between you and Lucy Wu from Texas, just bring your ID right over to an actual cop! I mean what do braces, some zits, 7 inches in height difference and the fact that you’re German have to do with anything?! Mr. Cop will fix that situation right away for you. I hear there’s even a really nice pool at the Panama City County Jail!

5. And Finally…..To all of you high school boys out there, if you want to be big man on campus you need to start buying us all drinks. I don’t mean like 1…… I mean like 10.  Nothing will make you cooler than spending all of your dad’s credit limit on drinks for me and my girls. Because in case you haven’t noticed, your high school sweetheart has been in the hospital/ jail since Tuesday and you have no one to hang with in PCB now anyways. So just hand over the Visa…. and do me a favor and sit over there please.

I decided to take a night class on Tuesdays so that I could work 9-6 then go directly to class then attempt to go to the gym after… I know, I know, I’m the most brilliant schedule maker on the planet; I’ll make yours for you for a small fee just shoot me an email to splashofcran@yahoo.com. Anyway, I should have known this was gonna be good when I skipped the first week (don’t pretend you’re above syllabus week) and then a snow day forced the second week to be cancelled. So on the third week of class I strut in promptly at 6:00 and everyone stops what they’re doing, and turns to ask if I’m in the right place. I confirmed with them that I was and they informed me I was the only girl in the class.. fantastic. As the rest of the class shows up I realized that I must be the only undergrad in the history of this university to take a “continuing ed” course because these men were in complete shock to see a 21 year old girl chugging dunks iced coffee after 5 pm chatting away on my droid. Surprisingly this this class is pretty typical for this specific university: no one under 30, 75% ex-military men, all computer science majors, and every nationality represented equally. I’m giggling to myself at the situation I ended up in when in walks the best fucking part: The Professor.

This man has been published in The Paris Review, The New York Times, written three of his own books, ran the Boston Marathon twice and had 2 knee replacements. Pretty impressive right? Well imagine my surprise when a 5’5 forty-something year old man, gimps into the classroom fully decked in a specific Boston suburb “wrestling team” jumpsuit, sporting a grey mullet and two perfectly spaced, bucked, front teeth. The first thing he said to me, through his interesting grin and somehow both squeaky and raspy voice was “Thank god we have a girl in the class – I was gonna make one of these guys wear a dress if you didn’t show up.” … happy to be here?

The weekly progression of this class has led me to believe the following: I will get an A in the course solely because I’m a girl, so I guess it’s worth the extra $900 this shit is costing me. He has attempted to tackle 3 innocent students that have walked within close proximity of our classroom, so I will never, ever be late. He had us make paper airplanes out of our only in-class assignment – clearly I fucking failed at this and was made an example of… the fact that I was the only one to do the assignment correctly didn’t matter in the least. And finally, he spent 20 minutes trying to point lasers in our eyes last week. Good thing I’m already blind as a fucking bat buddy or I might have gotten pissed. For those of you who watch the show Community, it’s pretty much exactly like that – minus all the other girls and the asian guy isn’t the prof but instead the guy that sits next to me every week who has lived in America since he was 4 but somehow still can’t speak any fucking English. God Bless the USA.

To my dog, I leave the remnants of my vodka-infused whipped cream, which she seems to like so much, and all of my slutty Spring Break clothes. To my beloved cat, I leave my dorm room so she can finish my undergraduate education for me. She will also take my seat in law school and go on to earn her J.D. and be addressed as Esquire. Mother will have whatever money remains in my checking account and my piggy bank. I bequeath this blog to whomever of the core pour survives me (if any). At my funeral, please play that song from RENT and Baz Luhrmann’s “The Sunscreen Song.” I don’t know why more class speakers don’t just get up on the stage at graduations with a boombox and play that shit, maybe throw in an interpretive dance. That was always my dream.

My final apologies:

To mother: Sorry for always laughing at your typing/texting skills, and making fun of you for buying wine at K-mart. Also, sorry about anything involving the Kia. (Happy Birthday Mom!)

To my friends: Sorry for making you figure out how to put my shoes on for me. And for making you open my bottles of champagne for me. God I’m helpless. Also, sorry for always insisting on making speeches/toasts.

To the bartenders at Daisy’s: Sorry for stealing all your tips.

To Johnny at the Shangri-La: Sorry for taking so long to finish my General Tso’s chicken.

To whoever has to clean out my dorm: Sorry for all the trophy shot glasses, and all the kitty calendars.

To Liquor Store bouncers: Sorry for trying to balance in heels in a cobblestone fucking street.

To that girl at the MIT frat party and the girl at Our House: Sorry for accidentally leaving with your coats years ago.

To that one very angry cab driver: Sorry you got lost and took forever so I couldn’t afford to pay in full.

To an ex-boyfriend: Sorry for wearing a fucking skirt.

To the environment: Sorry for using all those plastic cups.

To those guys from Saturday night: Sorry for drinking so much Moet, and sorry you’re so ugly.

To my liver: Just sorry. Sorry for pouring.