It is with a heavy heart I write you today; I wish it were on a happier subject.
You need to pull your life together.
I am tired of getting calls at 3am, telling me you’ve been pulled out of some trash bin, completely covered in beer, or worse. I am tired of hearing stories of you being found, in the middle of a crowded party, stuck to one or more random other cups. And I am sick and tired of having to explain, to my children, why there are pictures of you all over Facebook, having ping pong balls thrown at your face (what kind of sick sh#t is that?).
Look, I realize that you’ve been trying. I get that. A paper plate told me you were out at a barbeque a few weeks ago, full of club soda and Sunny D. He even said you helped hold the knives and forks. But I’m telling you now, every time you help some fratboy take down two dozen Miller Lites, it’s a step in the wrong direction.
Anyways, that’s all I wanted to say. Things here are good. They’re still sticking with the Egg Nog Latte, which is as f$%king disgusting as ever.
I write because I care.
-Starbucks red cup
Starbucks red cup,
Where do you get off? You hardly even know me anymore, and yet you think you can lecture me on the finer points of good behavior? I know you like to think you’re this symbol of all the goodness and warmth of the holiday season, but you know what? I know for a fact that more than a few times last week you were holding a little more than just coffee. To think we’ve been friends our whole lives and I never realized you were Irish.
And where in the holy hell have you been since January?
I hope you end up collecting change outside a liquor store.
PS: Peppermint mochas are for pussies.