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Wednesday, August 10, 2011

It's Too Late to Apologize, It's Too Laaaate

Boys get a lot of shit for their [sometimes] ridiculous behavior. I know I’ve written about it, I know my friends and I talk about it, and I know Cosmo provides the criticism about it that usually spawns the conversation between my friends and I, but it’s time to be fair. Yes, you guys do some crazy ass stuff, but me and the ladyfriends are not completely innocent. I may be acting entirely alone here (I believe in the Girl Code, but I also believe in logical thinking), but I’d like to apologize for some of the things we do.
Babes: I’m not breaking any bond, so cool your jets and reinvite me to Girls’ Night J.

Sorry about the throw pillows: We know they’re cumbersome. We know there are too many of them. We know they’re too frilly and bedazzled to nap on and are therefore rendered pointless, but hear us out: They match the walls. That couch is a hand-me-down from my friend’s cousin’s sorority sister, and probably has about seven years’ worth of drool, spilled vodka, and mystery stains all over it. Neither of us wants to look at that, and pillows are a cheap and easy cover-it-up solution. We understand that your couch is in the same condition and you let the filth fly free, but the soap in the bathroom is lavender scented and the cookie jar is in the shape of a puppy, so we’re clearly living on two separate planets to begin with. Remember, though: the name “throw” pillow is just a stylistic term, so don’t even think about tossing that baby on the floor. Kindly push it aside and tolerate our girly ways; you can return to your rugged man cave later.

Sorry about the man-hating Facebook statuses: I don’t personally write these, because I’m not a fan of broadcasting my every emotion in general, but I see it quite often and I know it’s gotta be annoying. To be honest, you all can be pretty fucking stupid at times, but the yin to that yang is when you’re total sweethearts and sadly no one ever seems to give credit in those situations. The fact that a girl still has solid chances of getting laid even after she posts, “I’d like to cut off every penis in the world and feed them to a pack of hungry panthers” really has to be the lowest of low blows, because if you were to reciprocate that against the female population, you’d be left jacking off to your poster of Jeremy Piven for the rest of eternity. Don’t take it personally. And hey, if you really want to ward off these evil, estrogen-filled fragments of lady-scorn, a random “You look really nice today” (minus the boob stare) goes a long way.

Sorry about the lip gloss: It’s goopy and gets all over your face, so you either walk around after a smooch sesh looking like a five-cent tranny, or it’s blatantly obvious that you were just making out with the fat chick in the bathroom and we’re all gonna talk about it fo dayz. Wish there was something we could do, but the fact of the matter is, you’d feel a lot worse about yourself if you felt like you were kissing Tyrone Biggums, so it’s one of those things you just take with a grain of salt and inconspicuously wipe off afterward. Plus, it tastes like watermelon!

Sorry about my period and all of the elements that come with it: What, you think it’s a booze cruise to Skinny and Comfortable Land up in here? We really don’t want to burst into tears when you don’t immediately deny how much hotter our roommate is than us, and we certainly don’t want to snap at you for not refilling the Brita pitcher, but in four-ish days everything will be back to normal so just sit tight and keep your game face on. We appreciate you being so great and offering us the last bite of lasagna, but we already feel like fat cows (as evidenced by our sweatpants) so just keep it to yourself and rub our backs. And don’t judge us when we go to sleep with said sweatpants on – you knew nothing was happening tonight anyway. Now get out before we cut you.

Sorry about my obsession with Toddlers and Tiaras: And Say Yes to the Dress. And Real Housewives of New Jersey. We know you think this definitely means we want to marry you in a $12,000 Pnina Tornai gown, tease our hair while living in a Scarface-esque mansion across the Hudson River, and raise our daughter to be an obnoxiously bitchy 3-going-on-23-year-old, but it’s not entirely true. Horrible reality TV is our thing (and who says we want to marry you in the first place? Whattup Albie Manzo!). We're not going to tell anyone that this is what we do every Wednesday night at 8 pm, and we promise you can watch Deadliest Catch later, so be a trouper and let us have our guilty pleasures.

Sorry about the drunk texts: It’s probably a super ego booster when we tell you how great you look in person. It probably has a significantly less encouraging affect when you receive that compliment in the form of, “Omg ypu lokk sooo hot TOnifht.” Our bad. It’s the thought that counts, but we can all agree that if we’re having trouble spelling “you,” our thoughts are probably not all there. There’s a good chance that we sincerely mean what we say, it’s just a little difficult to determine what we mean in that mess of gibberish. Please don’t forever view us as incoherent, flippant, sloppy idiots, because if we were like this all day every day the assumption would be that we were palsied, not drunk. Laugh it off, and for the love of God don’t bring it up tomorrow.

Sorry about my relationship with my dog: Actually, I'm sorry you and I will never even be CLOSE to having the relationship I have with my dog. I love that little guy to pieces.    

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