Lessons in Being An A-Hole: Sorry, Me.

09/28/2011 · 108 comments

in How Did My Life Come To This,I'm A Terrible Person,Social Services

Dear Noa,

I’m sorry for that time you thought your hair would look so fucking amazing in a ponytail, predominately not styled, for that one prom. We all regret that night–the night of the horrific Cotton Eye Joe Incident. I’m sorry for thinking that same year that a glitter dress was a classy idea–but in good news, you learned you could never strip. Life Choices for the win, there.

On that same line, I’m sorry you thought it was a good idea to break up with our boyfriend 1 week before prom but still go with him. It was pretty magical having him shout, “LOVE IS A LIE,” in the middle of Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody.

I’m sorry for spending 4 years wearing nothing but Wranglers and blue t-shirts. Oh God, why?

I’m sorry we’re just now discovering Star Trek: The Next Generation and Doctor Who. The good news is, we have a lot of time to make up for in awesome TV, and that you now imagine the voices of your appliances are Patrick Stewart.

I’m sorry for admitting publicly that you give your appliances narrations. Your fridge is kind of an asshole, by the way.

I’m sorry we love TLC and Investigation Discovery. I’m not sorry we love Venture Brothers, Frisky Dingo, The Oblongs, and Fullmetal Alchemist.

I’m sorry you’ve only seen the end of The Big Lebowski, that you don’t remember if you’ve ever seen Clerks or not (chances aren’t good). You really need to get on that.

I’m sorry it seems like we’ll never get out of this cycle of self-abuse.

I’m really super sorry about our terrible taste in music. I can’t help it if we own a few songs by The Chipettes and Tiffany, and most of the collections of Celine and the Good Man Bolton. And Rascall Flatts. And…you know…Baha Men. There’s a lot to be ashamed of by the necessity of having a playlist called, “Not Shitty Music,” just in case you have to play music publicly.

I’m sorry for owning and wearing those tennis-shoe high-heels. Neither one of us can explain that shit.

I’m sorry for that time you busted a bottle on a countertop and threatened to, “cut a whore like a good coupon,” over a bodybuilder named Doc who worked at Best Buy.

I’m sorry you didn’t better treat the guy who broke up the fight, a stock guy from Best Buy who looked JUST LIKE Seth Rogen. He liked you, and he was a lot better than you treated him.

I’m sorry for that time we were in Scotland and that guy coughed into your open mouth and you didn’t punch him. Our reflexes are much better now, grasshopper.

I’m sorry we’ll never take a picture in which we aren’t making scrunch-faces like you’re thinking about black holes, gonorrhea in sea turtles, and trying to eat a peanut butter quesadilla at the same time.

I’m sorry your regrettable hairstyle once got you mistaken for a person with special needs at the Bridal Shop.

I’m sorry for those panic attacks you had for so long–but please, learn to wear them like a badge of honor, because you no longer have them, and others are not so lucky as you.

I’m really really sorry you clicked that link today that said, “Nancy Grace Wardrobe Malfunction.” Lesson learned.

Love From,

Noa D. Gavin

What are you sorry to yourself for?

Favorite Comment From The Last Post:
From Jillian: “When you repent, be sure to ask forgiveness for all the toast you’ve eaten in your life. When Hell Guy, my college’s transient expert on God, redemption, and fiery pits of doom, visits for his bi-annual “lecture,” he is always ominously vague about the evils of toasters and anything that gets cooked by them. Especially Pop Tarts, because those things were designed specifically for the toaster, unlike bread which could be eaten on its own if we sinners hadn’t fucked it up with our new-fangled heating appliances.”

 

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