Dear Aunt Becky-

Do you make your I Kicked Cancer’s Ass t-shirts in toddler sizes? I NEED one for my 2 year old. This kid is totally kicking cancers ass.

xoxo
Lisa

Dear Lisa,

YAY for your toddler kicking cancer’s ass! That’s AMAZING.

We do not currently make those in toddler sizes, but we need to. Period. So you’ve put a bug up my ass about it and now? We’ll make it happen. Stay tuned!

P.S. Did I mention that your kid rules?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Do you still have the shut your whore mouth shirts, I cannot locate them on the site or I could be and idiot too!!

Sure do, Prankster! Our Shut Your Whore Mouth shirts are RIGHT here! Enjoy.

P.S. Send me a snap of you with the SYWM shirt when you get it. I’ll add it to my awesome photo gallery.

Hello Aunt Becky,

First I wanted to tell you that I completely enjoy your blogs! And I admire the courage you have for being able to share with humor all you and your family goes through. I am asking if you or any of your Pranksters might have any advice for me beyond the thought of I need a hugging coat and to do the thorazine shuffle, because I do believe I have gone cocoa for coo-coo puffs.

8.5 years ago my twins passed away due to complications with CF. (CF sucks big monkey butt btw)

I was told when they were born that a massive amount of damage was done and I would not be able to have anymore children. Fast forward to present day, I have a huge miracle in my baby girl that is 5 months old now. I love her beyond reason, and want to do my level best for her.

So what the hell is my problem?

Well, I think I’m screwing up. I was so used to parenting 2 very sick little ones, that I have no clue how to be a parent to a healthy child. The poor kiddo gets interrupted naps, because out of habit, I go to make sure she’s breathing clearly, not running a fever, all of those crazy things I had to do before. I find myself having damn near a panic attack when we go to the pediatrician for shots and check ups. I try every day to tell myself that she is not them, and is healthy and I can get a full night sleep. The only reason she wakes up at night, is because I wake her up checking on her.

My logical brain knows she is healthy and I need to knock it off. But that fear, is just sitting there, almost mocking me. I tried talking to my husbands family about it, they told me I needed to get over it. Yeah, I have no real support system to speak of. I guess I’m just wondering if this is normal for parents that have been through this? Or am I just simply that crazy? Thank you in advance for your thoughts on the matter.

And for being a bright spot in many a mothers day.

Oh Prankster, I’m so sorry for the loss of your twins. That makes my heart break into a zillion tiny pieces.

I’ve thought about your question for awhile now (shut up, I CAN think)(sometimes) and in knowing that I am neither a doctor, nor do I play one on the Internet (much), I feel that you may have PTSD. It makes perfect sense, having lived through hell already, that you’d suffer such an anxiety disorder. Frankly, I’d be surprised if you DIDN’T.

If you burned your hand REALLY BADLY on the stove, you’d probably be eleventy-billion times more cautious in the future while using the stove. Raising a child after losing two children is like that, only magnified a quadrillion times.

So yes, your reaction is completely normal and expected. The good news is that while you’ll probably always be more cautious with your daughter, PTSD is a completely manageable illness. If you can find the right help, you’ll be able to work through some of the anxiety you’re experiencing. And may I invite you, AND everyone reading this to post over at Band Back Together. We have a large amount of baby loss parents who work with us who, I’m sure, understand your feelings entirely.

Sending you love and light. Please, please, please, all of you, Pranksters, please write your stories for us.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I recently joined a group of amazing ladies, we’ve been pregnant together and now we’ve started to have our babies. One of these women had her baby, a beautiful little girl and found out soon after birth that something was wrong. Her red light reflux in one of her eyes was wrong. It’s looking like right now that her daughter has a cataract, which is a huge deal for infants.

She’s waiting to get word on when they can travel to start surgery and treatment since there are apparently only a handful of surgeons who can operate on this. She’s scared, and we’re scared for her. I would love it if you could put this out there and see if there’s anyone else that has some positive stories and has been through this.

There’s so much information out there and so much of it is terrifying that it’s hard to even know where to begin.

Dear Prankster,

I’m hoping that by posting this, we can find some people who understand and have been where your friend is. I’m making it a prerogative this week to create a resource page for you on Band Back Together. Hopefully, we can collect some stories for you and your friend so people facing this scary diagnosis have somewhere to go.

Thank you so much for being such an incredible friend. She’s lucky to have you.

Much love to you and your friend.

—————–

As always Pranksters, please fill in where I left on in the comments. And let these two Pranksters know that they’re not alone. Because, we really are none of us alone.

I sort of feel sorry for anyone stuck visiting me. Not because I’m not a gracious host (and I’m using “gracious” to mean yelling “get your own damn soda” while I lounge about on the couch) but because I’m a wicked bad tour guide. I’d rather tour the dumpster I used to get wasted behind than go and visit some of the more touristy bits of Chicago. Mostly because I find my dumpster more enthralling than the masses of people staring up at the Tall Buildings.

For a city who loves tourism as much as we do, we’re awfully rude about having them. I love nothing more than spoiling a nice snapshot by standing behind the lovely tourists and making inappropriate hand gestures while the shot is taken. I’d much prefer to take you to witness two mob bosses having a fist fight than I would ride the Ferris Wheel on Navy Pier. I’d rather take you to the dumpy pizza place, praying we don’t get diphtheria (AGAIN) while we nosh on the most delicious pizza ever created (even if it is a front for a drug cartel) than tour the Sears Tower**.

But my girl Crys is coming into town today. And while I’d like to be all, “Pranksters, come visit and we’ll go do awesome touristy things while I play World’s Best Tour Guide,” I know myself better than that. Because while she’s probably expecting to see Chicago’s Greatest Hits*, I’m planning to sit on the couch and make her fetch me Diet Coke.

In fact, I’m such a good friend that I’m praying she gets introduced to Chicago the way most of us do: fist-fight in the airport.

Because I never know I’m home until I deboard in Chicago, where everyone glowers glumly as they take off or put on clothes – depending on the season – threatening other passengers with their eyes to not fuck with them. I feel sort of sorry for my California-based friends who have no idea why everyone looks so pissed off until they step outside and realize it’s Balls Hot or Balls Cold.

It’s only then that I know I’m home sweet motherfucking home.

Welcome, Crys. Remember: don’t make eye contact.

*an oxymoron.

**It is not, never has been and never will be the “Willis Tower.”

————

PS. Am here at the Stir today. Also: here.

———–

Also: are you guys as lousy a tour guide as I am?

Pranksters, I miss you.

I feel like my life these days is one gigantic [redacted] symbol (if it’s not a symbol, it should be). Each day, I come here, sit at my computer for an hour, cursor blinking merrily on the blank page, as I try desperately to tell you something – anything. For years, writing here has been the only thing that’s kept me sane, and now, I’ve lost my words.

Day in and day out, I sit here, typing, deleting, [redacting] and eventually, publishing something that even I know is bullshit. It’s not for lack of trying, which makes me more infuriated. But my head these days is swimming, overwhelmed, full of the sads. I try to pluck words from the mush left between my ears and they don’t work together. They simply don’t fit. And I know it.

I hate living a [redacted] life. I’m not a [redacted] kind of person. I love being an open book. I’ve always loved being an open book.

But when shit gets serious, I retreat. I put myself in the [redacted] corner and pull inside. Nothing gets in or out. It’s the time I most need people and yet, I cannot even form the words to say so.

This is bullshit.

I cannot live this way. It’s become readily apparent that living a [redacted] life is more harmful to me than it is helpful. Retreating to my [redacted] corner leaves me shaky and hyperventilating.

So it’s time to un[redact] my life.

Pranksters, lock up your cupcakes and hide your vodka: Aunt Becky’s back.

(Scene: 6PM in hotel conference room. Five people sit around a table introducing themselves to an audience)

Girl 1: “I’m from Think Geek. I’m responsible for all of the social media from Think Geek. I also brought awesome swag.”

Girl 2: “I’m from NASA. I work with the NASA blog and Twitter account.”

Guy 1: “I’m from Wired.com.”

Girl 3 (uncomfortably looks at hands): “I’m um…Aunt Becky. From Mommy Wants Vodka. I write a thoroughly mediocre blog.”

(audience stares at her)

Girl 3: “It’s um, a MOMMY blog.”

(audience stares)

Girl 3 (laughs uncomfortably): “Sometimes I write about my vagina.”

(audience stares)

Girl 3: “I have an amazing Band of Merry Pranksters. On my blog. They’re the best people on the Internet.”

(audience glares)

Girl 3: “Except, um, you.”

(audience is beginning to leave)

Girl: “I’m in a bathing suit holding a chainsaw in my Twitter avatar.”

(audience smiles and nods happily)

Works every time.

By the time I arrived in Maryland, I’d already been in the airport for what seemed like eleventy-billion years. Before I arrived – just as I arrived at the airport – my 9AM flight had been bumped to 11AM and I was set to miss my connecting flight. By a long mile.

It appeared, though, that fortune was about to favor the really stupid as I charmed the lady from US Airways into moving me to a straight-through flight from Chicago to Maryland. This was no small victory.

My day seemed as though nothing, save for sitting at the airport terminal for three hours, could touch it. I was invincible. I was brilliant. I was about to take the ride of my life.

(total lie)

And then, my friend Nic picked me up from the Maryland airport, new copy of SkyMall happily in hand, and we went out to lunch. Then? My day just got a hell of a lot awesomer. Because I found THIS:

For 5 bucks, I too, could have a kit for all of life’s unexpected moments. Eagerly, I wondered what could be in this quixotic pink case. A light saber? A NEW copy of SkyMall? A billion dollars? A unicorn on roller skates? I simply couldn’t guess.

I was understandably depressed to learn that all this brilliantly pink case contained was some tampons. Like one. Not even a CONDOM or a copy of “Your STD and You.”

Sad.

After leaving the sad pink case behind, Nic prepared to drop me off at my hotel when we saw this:

And then I spent the rest of the weekend confused.

I drove a shitballs Ford something or another that was probably manufactured well before I was born to learn to drive. And in Maryland they allow – nay ENCOURAGE – students to learn to drive on a Corvette?

I considered jacking the student driver, but I was suitably underwhelmed by Maryland and figured I probably didn’t need to spend the next 8-10 years there in jail. Better to be busted for something in Chicago, where my “mob” connections might land me a really spiffy cell.

The rest of the weekend was spent moaning in a dark bedroom. Migraine. It appeared that Maryland didn’t agree with me.

On the flight home, I got stuck in some southern backwoods airport for an extra hour. An hour I blissfully listened to a couple near me fight about The Bears and a drunken guy loudly complain about people from Chicago. I’d have knifed him with a homemade shiv, but I left my toothbrush at the hotel.

When I finally stopped laughing, I opened my eyes and saw this: something so magical I so as to evoke tears in my hardened heart. Something so magnificent as to require photographic evidence, if only to document that such a time was really, really, really real:

If you, Pranksters, are not weeping at the sight of a man, vigorously playing with his testicles while loudly on the phone with someone, well, your heart is more hardened than even mine.

And so, with a quick tug on his penis, this guy made certain that my trip to Maryland, was, for a moment, perfect.

A couple of weeks ago was my mother’s birthday. I know this because my eldest called me in DC and was all, “OMG MOM, IT’S GRANDMA’S BIRTHDAY,” to which I replied inelegantly, “oh FUCK.” I’ll blame the migraine and not my inability to keep track of dates.

Luckily, Daver ran point, got my mom a cake and sang Happy Motherfucking Birthday to her while I lounged about in my hotel room, ordering room service, bitching about the 26% surcharge.

Yesterday, we made my mom take us out for tapas to celebrate her date of birth. Also: the Daver’s.

It dawned on me while I was getting ready that morning that I had not thought to buy her anything. Like I said, I’m not particularly smart OR thoughtful, so you know.

On the way there, stunningly late (I abhor lateness, which should go against everything you’ve ever thought about me), I realized that there was only one cure for this horrifying oversight: AN AWESOME GIFT.

My mother, not being particularly sentimental, was going to love it, I knew. I just knew I was going to make up for YEARS of crappy gift certificates from places she’d never visited. All of those crappy shirts that said, “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH,” I’d given her would be erased with one. simple. gift.

I was stoked. I was relieved. I was thrilled. I was hungry.

What? We were going out to BRUNCH, not CHURCH.

So I waited, stuffing my face with bacon-wrapped dates until the moment was perfect.

And? It was:

I gave her the Bacon/Encased Meats Monster.

She seemed less thrilled than I thought, but I bet she’s simply containing her glee. Because, um, obviously.

Dear Aunt Becky:

I am married (no kids).

I am from NJ living in the South; where people typically don’t like to speak their mind. I have some single gals (some recently divorced) who make horrible decisions with men! They date guys many states away, date the wrong guys, bring new guys around their kids on first dates, move waaaaaay to fast with creepers.

I am not conservative, but watching them spin their lives around even more is painful. So here’s my question Aunt Becky: do I sit back like everyone else and see what happens or do I speak my mind?  

These gals are fragile and I fear I may not help the cause much!

Ah Prankster, this is a conundrum that many of us find ourselves in from time to time. Been there, done that, proudly worn the t-shirt.

So you’re wondering if you should continue to shut your (un)whore mouth and see which shit rises to the top or you should attempt to dissuade your friends from making horrible decisions.

But here’s the problem with opening your presumably un(whore) mouth: a lot of times, people don’t want to hear the truth, no matter how obvious. I remember distinctly when people warned me away from the person who would become the father of my first child. They were clearly in the right, however, what I remember is being hurt that my friends simply couldn’t be happy for me.

When you’re in the middle of a bad idea streak, it’s hard to see what’s what.

As hard as it was for me to hear, my friends were, as I stated, right and I respect (now) that they opened their (un)whore mouths.

So, the question, dear Prankster, is this: can you handle it if your friends tell you to fuck off no matter how politely you phrase it? If the answer is yes, then I say speak up, Prankster! If the answer is no, I’d say to shut your (un)whore mouth, grab a vodka and sit the fuck back and watch.

Good luck, Prankster. I’ll be sitting here, wearing my t-shirt and, like you, waiting to see what happens.

————-

Dear Aunt Becky,

I know this is probably a question asked allll the time, because what teenage girl DOESN’T (at one point) fall for their best guy friend?

He’s been my best friend since early middle school – six years now. We’ve gone through all the stages together: from sweet and innocent to hanging out to watch PG-13 movies, talking on the phone for hours, growing into rebellious teenagers, smoking pot together, stealing pills from our parents, and having amazing bonfires together.

Everything that I’ve done and grown into – or out of – was with him. He taught me stand up for myself when guys were dicks.

Then the day came, when all of a sudden, he wasn’t just my best friend – he was the guy I fell head of heels for. Now we’re both close to adulthood.

People encourage me to get over him, because there’s no chance we’ll be together, but I remember when he went to my uncle’s house (while I was in school) and sat and cried to my aunt; worried about my pill addiction. How he was “too in love with me” to see this happen. He never told me.

I dated his roommate. He told me he CAN’T be around me unless I break up with him. All the boyfriends I’ve had, he’s found a reason to hate. I don’t understand.

Recently, my other best friend died and it feels like my best friend died with him. I don’t know what to do. He’s changed – has his own life now – over-medicating himself and hanging out with horrible people.

I don’t miss the guy he is today, I miss the person I know he is.

Do I stay and see if he makes it through? Or do I move on with my life? For three years, I haven’t found an answer.

Prankster, I’d like to start this answer with a story. Once upon a time, Young Aunt Becky was In Love with her best friend. Only he wasn’t QUITE my best friend. And Young Aunt Becky, being a shyish (shut UP Pranksters) young thang, was nervous to tell him. So she didn’t.

And?

Turns out, he was gay.

But that last bit is extraneous information. So let’s ignore it and focus upon YOU again.

Prankster, if I could go back in time and save Young Aunt Becky YEARS (yes, YEARS) of heartache by opening my whore mouth and spilling mah feelers to this (gay) guy, I would’ve. Why? Because saying something beats the FUCK out of wondering…for years.

So I suggest that you grab the balls I never had and tell him. The worst that can happen? You find out he’s gay. Or um, wait, that’s me again. The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t feel the same way you do. And then? At least you don’t have to spend a second longer wondering about it.

Grab those balls, Prankster. Grab ’em and use ’em.

Let us know how it goes.

—————–

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have been dating this guy off and on (mostly on) for 5 years now. Recently while waiting for him to get off work I over heard him tell they guys “I’m never getting married again..” which I thought was funny because just last April he told me that once we got some things worked out he would buy me THE ring and I could start planning a wedding (Yes, he used THOSE words).

Now, he denies that, and says he’s never getting married.  

We could possibly have the same address but never the same last name.

Am I just wasting my time here? Is it time to call it a day and move on? I really need an impartial opinion here and frankly I trust you the mostest.

Dearest Prankster,

This is the question you have to ask yourself: is it more important to get married or is it more important to stay with this guy?

If the answer is “it’s more important to get married, DUH, AB,” then you know what you have to do. You have to call the relationship off, tell him to piss off, and find someone who shares your desire to get married. There are dudes out there who will happily get married.

If the answer is “it’s more important to be together, DUH, AB” then you stay, forget about the comment he made about getting married and settle into a life wherein you do NOT share a last name. There’s no reason that marriage has to = commitment (although I do understand it’s a deeper level of commitment).

Either way, this is your call, my dear friend, and I wish you the very best of luck.

————

Pranksters, please help me help these brilliant question askers out by giving them better advice than I did. Please? PLEASE?

*wrings hands*

WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?

*wrings hands*

Howdy, Pranksters. Today, I’m doing something I haven’t done in far too long: I have a guest poster.

Pranksters, meet my VP from Band Back Together and one of my very bestest friends, Jana, from Jana’s Thinking Place.

When Becky asked me to write a guest post for her site, I’ll admit, even after working with her on Band Back Together for over a year now, I got a wee bit nervous. I mean, I have to be funny and all, and quite frankly I’ve been having a bad week and don’t feel very funny. My antics over on my own site are typically laser-kitty-free and without lots of glitter and shit, but I do have a trick up my sleeve.

Have you met my kid Henry? He’s awesome. He’s almost 7 and thinks he’s 17. He loves iCarly and Seinfeld along with the normal little boy favorites like Star Wars and Phineas and Ferb.

He also ahem likes to cuss. I may or may not be to blame for this. I try to be good, I really do, but I kinda have a potty mouth. The occasional shit, damn or hell flies on a semi-daily basis while I try to contain my f-bombs to when little ears are asleep.

Anyway, we watch The Middle together. He thinks it’s hilarious and we do, too. This and iCarly are the only shows we all three agree on. The other night we were watching The Middle and the following conversation transpired:

Henry: Oh, I love this show. He’s my favorite character.

Me: Who is?

Henry: Asshole

Me: {head explodes}

Jason: {balding head explodes} Who? Who do you mean? ASSHOLE?

Henry: {pointing to the TV at the older brother}

Jason: OH, you mean Axl?

Henry: {the biggest, most disgusted sigh EVER} oh, shit, I thought his name was Asshole.

So for the next thirty minutes, every time Axl was on the TV, the word Asshole was muttered laughingly by my kid.

I’ve gotta say though, he’s got the whole cussing thing down pat. He knows when and how to use cuss words properly. He can throw around dammit and shit as well as the next potty mouth soccer mom’s kid. But we are fortunate that he DOES have a filter and knows when he can and can’t use the words.

School: No

Shower: Yes

Church: No

Bedroom alone: Yes

Well, now that I say that, I’ve probably jinxed it. He’ll come home from school tomorrow with a note saying he called some kid an asshole.

Who’ll be the asshole then?

(yup, probably me)

He was born not in a cross-fire hurricane*, but with a perfectly heart-shaped tongue. Ankyloglossia, I remembered from my nursing days, was the medical term for it, but I preferred to call it a tongue-tie. It just seemed more appropriate for a baby whose mouth never stopped moving. Er, screaming.

I mentioned it to his pediatrician at his one week Well Baby check-up, not because I had concerns about his eating habits, but because I knew that as an infant, it was a quick office snip. His old-school pediatrician seemed unconcerned, providing he was eating.

And Alex, he was a boob man. Eating, screaming and DECIDEDLY NOT SLEEPING were the three things he excelled at.

The tongue-tie stretched a bit over time, but still, that delicious little heart-shaped tongue greeted me as he bleated for more food. Later, it began to affect his words…only very slightly. That heart-shape gave him the most delightful Jersey accent, and one feverish night, I wondered if I could potentially cast him in an upcoming episode of Jersey Shore. Once I realized the amount of spray-tan I’d have to invest in, I decided against it.

It was a matter of time, I knew, before we had to get it fixed.

What had once been a simple quick snip at the doctor’s office had now become a full surgical procedure. Mostly, I knew, because no four-year old will willingly let you near his mouth with a scalpel. Because four-year olds are smart.

I’d taken him last year, one summer day, to the ENT, who pronounced that it’d be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of procedure: give him the gas, snip it up, and POW! Heart-shaped no more.

I stopped listening after he said he’d be putting the kid to sleep. Not because I had any specific, rational fears about it. Hell, my girl had her head carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and this, this was the surgical equivalent of a paper cut.

But still, I couldn’t handle it. I tried to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about it. I even went as far as to schedule the appointment. When it came time to actually bring him in, I bailed. Cancelled the surgery, ashamed that I couldn’t do something so simple. Every time I went to reschedule this – such an easy procedure – my heart raced, my eyes went all blurry and three-hundred pounds sat upon my chest.

Every time Dave would mention the surgery, I’d suddenly busy myself with a new cactus video or waxing my dog, or really anything besides talking about the surgery.

As this morning at 7:45, Alex became officially tongue-tie-less.

What shocks me is not that he pulled this incredibly easy surgery like a champ. It’s not that he just inhaled 12 donuts post-op. It’s not that he’s complaining that I have not yet bought him Oreos.

No.

What shocks me is that I’d managed to entirely block out the surgery until yesterday. Last night, it hit me like a bag of oranges to the face, and when I began whining to whomever would listen to me on IM, each person was all, “OMG AB, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME?”

And that, really, would be the question.

All I could sputter out was that I’d forgotten. Which I had.

As Alex’s tongue became untied, mine knotted up, unable to share with even those closest with me.

*stands up and waves*

My name is Becky, and I am the Face of PTSD.

*that’d be me. Or Jumpin’ Jack Flash. OR BOTH.

I tend to get into television shows far later than most. In fact, if there’s a series that’s about to be cancelled or IS, in fact, cancelled, I will probably get into it, fall in love, then be devastatingly crushed when it is over. BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, DAMMIT.

I’m still not over the ending of Prison Break – I cannot think of it without weeping. I may have a little bit of a problem.

(shut UP)

A couple of months ago, probably while looking for tweets about laser kitties, I stumbled across The Twitter babbling on about a show called Mad Men. I sorta want to put it in inappropriate quotation marks just because.

Well, I figured that if the REST of the world was watching it, I’d probably hate it. Even though I’m married simultaneously to Dr. House and Dexter – both popular shows – I always assume I’ll hate popular culture. You can thank my parents for that one, Pranksters.

About a month ago, after reaching the end of Numbers, spending several days in mourning and then realizing I needed a new hobby besides becoming overly invested in television shows (see also: my marriages to Dr. House and Dexter), I finally queued up Mad Men.

I’m hesitant about any show that I alone pick because I spent at least three months watching Nip/Tuck while hating every goddammed minute of it. I screamed at the TV like it was a football game every night until I watched every single episode. And then? I’m STILL furious that I spent so much time watching a show while hating every. single. character.

Alas, I digress.

But I picked Mad Men, and I began to watch it, unsure of how I could handle a show where people aren’t eaten by sharks or otherwise horribly disfigured, depressed or maimed (see also: my love of Cold Case and Law and Order: You Lead A Charmed Life, Motherfucker).

I admit, I was bored by the show. But I kept on because I HAD TO SEE IF SOMEONE WOULD BE EATEN BY A GIANT BEAR.

And then, I sorta, kinda, maybe liked some of the characters. Like a little.

But mostly, I liked the clothes. So what if everyone is repressed, drunk, and chain-smoking? THEY HAVE KICKY CLOTHES THAT I COVET! So what if everyone is having The Sex with everyone else? LOOKIT THE FANCY HAIRS!

I’m making an executive decision. I will go back to being a repressed housewife in the 1960’s IF I can get clothes like that. Because have you BEEN to The Target recently?

One word: ROMPERS. For WOMEN.

(that was more like two words or like fifty-niner)

I’m SO not okay with that. I’m also not okay with the scrunchies, acid-washed jeans, or jeggings.

NOT OKAY, PRANKSTERS.

So bring on the copious amounts of booze, gimmie my pack of smokes and fancy lady lighter, and screw being liberated. IF I CAN WEAR A TWIRLY SKIRT, I’M YOURS.