Everything is wrong with me
Monday, September 13, 2004
A message to...
[A series of messages to those I affected during my weekend in Boston]

Everyone I didn’t call while in Boston,

I’m sorry. I really am. But you know that I’m not very good with that whole “calling” thing, and my phone didn’t have reception all weekend, because Sprint is the worst company in the history of America. I think if you gave me enough cocaine I could build a better company in forty-eight hours with a hanger, some peanut butter, scotch tape, and a lock of hair from a virgin and it would have much better reception than Sprint.

Also, I was drunk pretty much the whole time I was in Boston. I don’t think an hour passed from the moment I got off the sex bus to the moment I got back on that I wasn’t drinking something alcoholic, in most cases from a can. Or a bottle. Or from a leaky zip-lock bag.

I firmly believe that because of these reasons I should be absolved of any responsibility for my lack of effort to hang out with you all. Sure, you may talk behind my back or send me angry emails calling me a bad friend, but you can take comfort in the fact that I had a miserable Sunday, hungover as a mother fucker, shaking and sweating, rocking my vampire look*, as my body was yelling, “Hey, we haven’t had a Busch Light in over two hours – what the fuck is going on? Get on it chubby!” and having conversations with my friends like:

Me: “For some reason, my left eye really hurts.”
My buddy Joe: “That’s because Mark hit you in the eye with that baby tomato. He fucking nailed you. Don’t you remember?”
Me: [light bulb going off] “Oh yeah…what a dick.”
Joe: “Yeah, and then you tried to stab him with a fork, but you missed and you guys fell into the table and knocked all the food over, then you started crying.”
Me: “Yeah. I’m pretty sweet.”


Me: [walking out of bathroom after morning piss] “That’s kinda weird. I don’t have any pubes any more.”
My buddy Bill: “Yeah, that was awesome last night.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Bill: “You know, last night at the tailgate when you said you’d shave your pubes if Don gave you the last hot dog and when he did we went back to your brother’s dorm and you actually did it. And then you started crying.”
Me: “I don’t remember that.”
Bill: “Trust me, it was awesome.”
Me: “Well, it sounds pretty fucking awesome. Besides, they’ll grow back, and now my bird looks huge and juvenile at the same time!”
Bill: “Nice.” [Bill and I high-five]

Anyway, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you next time. I promise. For real.

[*My friends joke that I look like a vampire when I’m hungover: my skin gets as pale as a sheet of paper, and my lips turn dark red, almost maroon. Not my finest look.]


Hot girl from The Harp on Friday night whose names escapes me,

I wanted to thank you for talking to me at the bar and letting me practice my “game” on you. You made me look very cool in front of my friends, because it is not often that I talk to hot girls at bars, as instead I spend my time talking to dudes, the bartender, and myself (after enough drinks), and usually we talk about sports, boobs, and minorities.

I wish you didn’t have a boyfriend, but since you do, I hope he dies. Well, I shouldn’t say that, because it’s not like you said to me, “You know, I really would go home with you right now, but I have a boyfriend.” If you had said that, I would certainly be in Suffolk County right now, awaiting arraignment for murder two.

But thanks again. And you have honey in your hips. That’s the highest compliment I can possibly give. Trust me.

Come to NYC. We can take walks in Central Park, got to the top of the Empire State Building, and maybe fool around a little bit. It’ll be fun (for me).



I’m sorry that I repeatedly called you while drunk. Please know that I didn’t do this to try to seduce you, since that’d be weird, since I made out with your sister a few times. I did so only to a) get you to come hang out and have a beer; and b) bring some of your friends for me to hit on. So you can see I did this for your benefit and your benefit only.

I’m sorry that I called ten times between 1am and 2am and had the following conversation with you, only learning the very last time that you were asleep, and had been asleep for some time, and I kept waking you up:

Me: [finishing beer #82] “Steph, can you hear me? It’s Jason.”
Steph: [through terrible reception] “Taslalkh…akahunan…aigapingapni…”
Me: “Listen, we’re in my brother’s mod. It’s 15c. Come down and bring some friends.”
Steph: [more bad reception] “Iofhnokv…oiangoiaengaih…aklsfjwgfaoij.”
Me: “I’ll see you soon, ok? 15c.”

My bad. But I still would like to meet some of your friends. Please have them email me.

Thank you. I owe you one.


My brother and all his friends who are currently seniors,

One word: semen. Five words: enjoy college while you can.

Because it’s all downhill from the moment you pack your shit in your parents’ car and drive away from that school. Welcome to a world of responsibility, in which drinking until 4am on a random Tuesday is no longer consider “cool” and a “good time”, but rather “an indicator of alcoholism” and “the first step to losing your job.” A world in which getting a freshman chick drunk and bringing her back to your place to take pictures of her when’s she passed out isn’t “awesome” but “illegal.” A world in which you have to wake up every day and doing something you dislike for eight hours (sometimes more), all the while knowing that this is what the rest of your life is going to be like.

[Good lord – now I’m depressed.]

The point: have a great fucking time. Drink at least one hundred beers a week, because you don’t have anything better to do. Try to hook up every time you go out, because you’ll never be around so many drunk, consequence-free women. Destroy your place, because you can only get in trouble with housing, not the law.

God I wish I was in college. Can I go back and get a BA again? Is that possible? Would it be weird to have on my resume:

Boston College, Class of 2001, Bachelor of Arts in History
Boston College, Class of 2008, Bachelor of Arts in History and Communications (Communications being the biggest joke major in the history of majors)

I think I should look into this.

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