How to Deal With an Embarrassing Night
TELL AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE.
Now if you’re anything like me, for your future children’s sake / any chance you have at being a public figure I really hope you’re not, you do a TON of embarrassing shit. I am talking sober / sepia / blackout things. But being the badass ginger that I am and all, very little makes me feel bad about myself; after all, you have to laugh to keep from crying. Needless to say I never stop laughing… at myself.
Girls have this really bad habit, myself included, to end most semi-private, aka non Tweetable, tid bits of information with “don’t tell anyone, okay, you have to promise.” Which is a complete waste of texting characters because girls cannot keep shit to themselves, or if they can, it is only when they are sober. Putting booze in a chick is like taking the sheet off the bird cage- give ‘em a little bit of light beer and they do not shut up. I mean, I am usually pretty good at keeping other peoples’ secrets, mostly because I don’t care enough to completely listen (JKayy I do), but I cannot keep shit about myself on the DL.
I will bbm one girl and tell her not to tell anyone, text her roomie and tell her not to tell anyone, then basically anyone who texts me within the alloted “sending regrettable morning after apology text time period” is gonna get at least seven texts about my night, in rapid succession. This has been going on for about two years now. Okay fine, four. Basically, I am putting out feelers in the attempt that you did worse than I did, so I, in comparison, can feel better about my meaningless consumer driven life. Its like asking you to be the fat friend. When all else fails just read textsfromlastnight.com, more often than not the crazy ass bitches that submit those texts do way worse, and by way worse I mean way better.
I wish sober Kellyann loved running as much as drunk Kellyann; then again I wish drunk running me would LOOK FOR THE CURB and not at the horribly misspelled text messages to a guy I met once / on Facebook / Craig’s List. No thanks, I’m good. My classic embarrassing night usually involves slicing something open, daring myself to do stupid things (aka shots of cheese / jumping a fence / attempting Spanish with Poncheros), followed by harrassing the shit out of some guy who luckily never has to see me again. Until he friends me on Facebook then ignores me the next time we run into each other, which I will never understand.
When I drink I like to steal things from the houses I have attended, a souvenir of sorts. Like the tortilla dish I stole from a frat’s third floor by putting it between my legs, holding it there, then going down all those flights of stairs. To make this feat far more impressive I was wearing a spandex and mesh America Apparel dress. Needless to say that is the night I won over the Quickie Burger employees (who promised to cater my wedding), and random passerbys, with my countless reenactments of the stairs vs. what’s between my legs, saga. From the same house I have also acquired a screw driver, a hammer- far more functional tools (you’re welcome housematies). Karma, being the PMS bitching boss she is, makes sure I lose enough shit of lesser or equal value. A sort of sloppy “The Price is Right” exhange you could call it. Dish + hammer + screw driver = nightgown + one shoe + blackberry torch.
We will become best friends, we will take a million pictures together, I will not remember your name. Until next weekend when we do the same thing all. over.again. Said pictures, along with these here words ya’ll, come with the your money back, customer satisfaction guarantee, that I will not get a job after college. My dad Googled me and what came up? A Facebook group from high school that a FRIEND created called, “Kellyann Is the Reason I’m an Alcoholic.” Google it, I dare you. *It’s because I wouldn’t smile and mastered my famous F U face that sees into your soul. There are countless pictures I have been tagged and detagged in that would make a magnificent slideshow of “controversial” images on CNN / BPS / WTF. I am actually kind of proud of that. I shouldn’t be, I really shouldn’t be. There goes that dream of marrying anyone famous / rich / attractive. Don’t worry, I added a middle name on Facebook so no one will ever find me.
So lets all drink to being “that one girl” that likes “that one asshole.” Lets fill our cups with nights full of bad decisions / destruction / Twitter wars- because we are *that mature*. The real world can wait when I got my spanx on.