Dear Vodka,

What the fuck is your problem? My sheets are ruined. Again.

I just can’t take it anymore.

I am sick and tired of devoting every fucking evening to maintaining our ‘relationship’ when all I get from you is a pain in my ass. I am done with your fucking shenanigans.

So here’s the deal, obviously you can’t, or won’t, shape the fuck up, and I  just can’t continue this relationship any fucking longer. I have tried, time and time again, to get you to behave, but to no avail. I still wake up in strange places without my underwear, have to spend Sunday mornings taking pregnancy tests and trying to wash the permanent marker off my forehead. I arrive late to work 3 out of 5 days wearing the same outfit as I did the day before, I have to get my car out of the impound at least once a month and I can’t seem to remember to buy toilet paper. Ever. You are the most expensive friend I have ever fucking had and you never chip in.

Remember when you wanted to move freezer because you said you felt more comfortable there? Well, I moved you, and then you just taunted me every time I walked by. Which turned into wasting more time with you earlier in the day and in turn winding up at the Hilton bar in Burbank every Tuesday because you thought the bar back was cute. He’s a fucking bar back! And what did it get you? Herpes? FTW.

I don’t make it to any of my other friends’ parties anymore, I forget to take showers, I find you in glasses scattered all over my apartment and you have gotten Whiskers the Wondercat wasted beyond all comprehension at least four too many times. No wonder my bras always smell like cat piss – he can’t find the fucking litter box when you get him all liquored up. You’re a fucking mess. And a horrible influence.

All I’ve been asking for is that you show a hint of consideration. I need to keep some semblance of a normal fucking life and the way you always end up inviting your friends Crack and Crackpipe over every Friday is not helping out with that cause in the least bit. If anything, it’s making everything worse. I certainly didn’t want to steal my landlord’s car and sell it to that fat Persian asshole on 7th Street last weekend, but you and your little gang of ‘friends’ made me do it so we could get half way to Vegas before running out of gas. Now I’m practically out an apartment and the midget truck driver we hitched a ride from is till following me to work.

You know, my ass is getting bigger, too. I thought you cared about my appearance but apparently that is an urban myth just like ‘your breath doesn’t smell when you drink vodka.’ Congrat-u-fucking-lations for tricking me again. I’ll be cleaning highways next week on my lunch breaks.

And to think of all the men that might have called me back if I hadn’t thrown up on them, passed out in the back of their car or blown their roommate in their bathroom – it just breaks my fucking heart. You’ve ruined me. And my vagina.

If you have one ounce of give-a-fuck left in you, you will leave me the fuck alone. I just wanted to fit in and now I see it’s just not fucking worth it.

I heard Lindsay Lohan is got out of ‘rehab’ today, go fucking ruin her life some more. I’m letting tequila move in.

Fuck you very little,

TG

P.S. Don’t call me, I’m not going to answer and you are not getting the shot glass we won at the donkey/drinking contest in Tijuana back. Tequila looks fucking hot in it.