Hi, Jessica. I’m aware that you’re upset with me. However, I want you to know that I gave it my best effort. This year was supposed to be different. Was I wrong to drink fourteen green beers before noon? Maybe. Was I out of bounds to steal a child’s skateboard and try to skitch on the back of a parade float? Probably. Would I take any of it back? Yes. I want to take it back.
I honestly believed I would be able to keep things together this year, but unfortunately I ended St. Patrick’s Day newly unemployed for the fifth year in a row. I’ll get it together, though. If we move a few towns over, I’m sure there are people who haven’t heard. We’ll start fresh. You can focus on your paintings. I’ll join a new cover band.
Are you sure I smashed the jukebox at O’Reillys because it didn’t have that one Third Eye Blind album? That seems a little over the top and, frankly, it doesn’t really sound like me. I thought I smashed it over a Pixies album. Yes, it was petty and immature. In my defense, you know what’s also petty and immature? Asking somebody to leave a bar because they love the album Doolittle and they’re not afraid to show it.
Okay, I’ll admit that I went overboard when I infiltrated the parade’s marching band, stole the head bagpipe player’s clothing, and convinced them to shift their route toward Bubba Gump in Times Square, but could anyone really have known that it would result in a 35 tuba player pile-up and a hot dog vendor uprising that will go on to span the next three decades?
Babe, we’ve been through this. I don’t know why I trapped the real head bagpipe player in my parents’ Prius. I do know that I can’t undo the past. Well, yes, he’s still locked in there, but I’m in too deep to let him go now so I can’t undo the future, either. Next year, I’ll make sure to stay away from the marching band.
Yes, there will be a next year, Jessica. I’m not going to hang up my shamrock sunglasses. I can’t compromise on this. I suppose this is goodbye, then. I want the ring I gave you back. And the comically over-sized leprechaun hat. Please, just leave. If you’re going to kiss me goodbye, I don’t want it to be because you pity me. I want it to be because I’m Irish.
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