Dear guy who did my first condo walk-through,
I’m sorry that I pretended to be fascinated by something out the back window while my parents ambushed you after finding out that the cable jack was in the wrong place. I haven’t seen them attack with such intensity in a while. The cable jack’s placement is important to me, but I was so excruciatingly uncomfortable during the whole “incident” that I couldn’t even step in to help you. I’m sorry about that. But only a little bit because you don’t remember me from high school even though we were in marching band together, and I was very popular in marching band. And by popular I mean Mr. Harbart yelled my name over the megaphone a lot because I was never paying attention and was always in the wrong place. Anyway, move my cable jack.
Dear body,
I’m sorry that on my first foray into drinking alcohol since the surgery I “took it easy” by drinking an Amaretto Sour, a martini and 4 White Russians on an empty stomach. I realize that even on a full stomach and at full drinking capacity, you can barely handle one martini. I have no excuse except to say that it tastes so good when it hits my lips.
P.S. I promise to stop wrapping my legs around people in the middle of the bar. It’s just sometimes hugging isn’t enough.
Dear friends who went out on Saturday,
I'm sorry I didn't go out. Please see above letter for explanation. Jace, I hope we are still best friends who sometimes "make it".
Dear Carrabba’s,
I will make love to your chicken marsala.
Dear Monday morning,
Fuck you.
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5 comments:
I can't speak to the rest, but I'm right there with ya on the last one....
oh you horju. i heart you so muchsa.
I'm all for the leg wrap hug. Nothing says "I love you, man." like a good leg wrap.
It's very European.
Okay Sarah - I was in marching band (yes, at your H.S), and I don't remember you. Hmm - maybe that's because I graduated in 92, before the freshman were at the HS. I'm quite curious as to who it is that's in real estate that won't move your f'ing cable jack. Cleveland is too small, and the 'Ville even smaller, for me to at least not know his name. But I digress... I just wanted to let you know that I also love Carraba's chiken marsala, even though it's not remotely traditionally Italian. My point is I've eaten so much of it that I basically could BE chicken marsala, so you can just make love to me instead. Sound fair? Ok, probably not, but, you know, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'm still waiting for your pals to give me the thumbs up or thumbs down on the whole "bed filler" position you were interviewing for. Sorry you drank too much, but glad you've apparently recovered from your surgery.
Thanks for keeping me laughing.
Whoa, anonymous, you're from Strongsville? That's crazy. Yes I was just a little freshman over at Albion Junior High when you were a senior. But since my friends and I were the oldest at the junior high back then we were extremely cool. Especially me with my spiral perm and braces.
The guy's name was Jeff, but I don't know his last name. I am a total hypocrite being mad at him for not remembering me when I don't remember his last name. At least I recognized him. He played saxophone, and it's not Jeff Kissinger. I don't know if you know anyone who graduated the same year as me, but in case you didn't know, '95 Tops.
Seriously why is Carrabba's chicken marsala so good. It's definitely not Italian especially when I get garlic mashed potatoes with it, but that's okay. I got Italian dressing on my salad so I'm pretty sure that means my entire meal then becomes Italian.
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