I’m at Amy’s. And by “Amy” I mean the guy I’m having casual sex with two-four times a week.
I don’t know where your jacket went. I took it to school with me, got drunk, spilled red wine all over it and now it’s in a ball in the back of my closet because I really don’t want to deal with it. Sorry.
I’m in class and my phone is on silent. I saw, silenced, and ignored your call. Also, what’s class?
Yeah, I’m taking care of myself. If eating enough queso to kill a dog and drinking enough alcohol to make an overweight, 40-year-old man pass out is taking care of myself, then yes. I’m taking very good care of myself.
We’re not dating. He’s just a friend. A friend who makes my toes curl and my condom stash disappear rapidly.
No. Really. He’s just a friend. No. Really. He’s not just a friend.
Can I use your credit card? It’s an emergency. Not realizing that the Semi-Annual sale was happening until it was already happening really is an emergency.
Last night? Oh I just hung out. Fell asleep early. Nothing crazy. I was drunk by 5 p.m. Stayed out until 2 a.m. Cried in public. Ate an entire pizza. Threw up the entire pizza (plus most of the vodka I drank). Texted my FWB. Hooked up with my FWB. Fell asleep still wearing my shoes. Woke up with a hangover, no pants, and no dignity. So, the usual.
That’s not mine. It’s totally mine.
Dad said it was fine. I haven’t asked dad, but I 100 percent know that he would not think this is fine.
No, I didn’t see your comment on my Facebook. Yes mom. I get a notification when you comment on my stuff. The whole world can see that you not only “liked” the post, but left a paragraph asking me if the boy in the picture was my boyfriend. P.S. He’s not.
Or grandma’s. I see everything.
And I really have no idea how they got deleted. Whoops.
I don’t know what my high school ex is up to. He’s here for the summer, just broke up with his girlfriend, got fifty-seven likes on his most recent Instagram post, texted me twice, came over to my apartment once, made me come three times, and just tweeted at Kanye. I mean, yeah. IDK.
Ew, I’ll never turn into you. I’ll be exactly (and I mean exactly) like you.
No, I can’t believe my best friend from middle school is pregnant, either. Yes I can. She was a total slut. And on that note I actually just took a pregnancy test, sooooo fingers crossed.
I need money for food. Read: alcohol.
You’re a bitch. I’m actually the bitch, and you were right about something.
It won’t cost much, I just need a trim. I actually need a deep conditioning treatment, lowlights and highlights, a new cut, and an up-do. Oh, and a new wand. Just because.
Yeah, I’m sure this outdated hand-me-down dress you got from The Limited seven years ago will look great on me. Thanks. How dare you put this curse, and hideous dress, on me.
It’s [insert sibling’s name here]’s fault. It’s all my fault.
I’m fine, I don’t need help. Can I call you for two hours and cry about the guy who didn’t text me back please?
You’re the best mom in the world. JK. That one’s the truth. .