Listen, Jess. I get that since your silent yoga retreat upstate you’ve been into “being present,” and “living each day as if it was your last.” The heartfelt toast at your impromptu wedding was sweet. So were the stacks of motivational posters and skydiving gift cards you dropped from a hot air balloon onto my front lawn. And, while we all agreed that you should express yourself more with your clothing choices, a sleeping bag is not a dress. I know it’s comfortable. That’s not the point. The point is: You’re being a total an idiot, Jess.
“Carpe Diem,” “Just Do It,” and #YOLO don’t mean making horrible decisions in the name of world peace or whatever. Sure, Jess, go ahead and seize the day! Sometimes. You know? Like, do go out for a quick margarita after work—but don’t quit your job to day-drink tequila shots and end up hang-gliding home because you “might never get the chance again.” If a piano really did fall on your head tomorrow, would you be pleased with your choices? Because none of us are impressed by the fact that you ate three boxes of doughnuts while banging trapeze artists in the YA Paranormal Romance section of Barnes & Noble. I mean. We’re a little impressed. But not when this is an every day thing. It’s like…less is more, Jess.
Nobody wants you to have regrets. It’s just that there’s a huge difference between forgiving yourself for your mistakes and being too blacked out to ever remember them. I’m not sure if you know this, Jess, but you have thirteen butterfly tattoos. Thirteen. Your back is a fucking botanical garden of half-completed monarchs that Lisa Frank wouldn’t even admire. It’s not cute. Neither is walking out on the brunch bill because “if you were on your deathbed, you wouldn’t want to pay forty dollars for some microwaved eggs and hollandaise sauce.” It’s like…Jess, if you didn’t want to pay for brunch, don’t go to brunch. If this “do whatever the fuck you want” phase is about money problems … wait. Did you develop kleptomania for need or sport? Because I don’t see how you need an entire crate of fruit roll-ups. Like, if it’s about money, we can figure this out. And no, not by gambling your life savings away through a Poker game with your doorman in that Gypsy cab you stole. Please. Don’t do that again, Jess. It’s not whimsical when someone could get hurt.
I’m telling you all this because I care. I’m sorry if it’s harsh, but everyone is thinking it. I just figure, if I die tomorrow, I don’t want to regret not telling you that everything you’ve been doing in the name of maybe dying tomorrow is making you into a total idiot, Jess.
