I feel as though you have gotten a bad wrap after Shondala Rhondala's party. I've received phone calls, emails, and text messages from people that once considered you a friend but now shudder when they speak your name.
I just want you to know that I'm not mad at you. I mean, sure... you somehow erased my memory from 11pm-4am, and I know I was awake at 4am because my cell phone tells me I called three of my friends at that unreasonable hour. I talked to two, the third may be upset with me. And you probably had something to do with my wallet becoming a dog's new chew toy. You probably even had a hand in me deciding I didn't need to wear my shoes and subsequently cutting my foot.
But I just can't stay mad at you, old friend. Let the others curse your name and vow to never play with you again, I'm still here for you. Let's face it, if I was going to be mad at you, it would have happened a looong time ago. I do suggest we slow down our relationship, though.
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I could write the same letter to Mr. Seagrams, Jack Daniels, Ernest and Julio, Bartles and James, Captain Morgan, Jim Beam, St Arnold... and throw a prayer in there while I'm at it.
But... I'm not.
It's beer thirty and i'm busy drinking.
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