Have You Seen Me? Saint Patrick’s Day May Have Claimed Ren

By Ren-

*Editor’s note:  Ren was last seen preparing for her Saint Patrick’s Day dumbassary Thursday morning.  She instructed us to publish this “farewell” letter in the event of her disappearance.  Since we haven’t seen her for well over 24 hours, we figured now is as good of a time as any.  That and Roode wants to get started deleting all her articles as soon as possible.

Dear friends, admirers, worshipers, family, and the various stalkers I’ve grown fond of,

If you are reading this, then I am already (circle all that apply) gone/dead/passed out/in Yakima/detained by Canadian authorities.  I assure you that I was awesome until the very end.  But, you would expect nothing less of me, your reason for living.

It's OK. There's no shame in admitting I'm your sunrise.

Saint Patrick‘s 2011 feels different from all the others in the past.  I feel that I may not make it back.  There is something in the air.  Some sort of morose stillness envelops the town.  It’s as if fate is telling me that this may be the Normandy of Saint Patrick’s Days.  That and the $2 Jameson and $3 Guinness special I saw in the paper.  Let’s face it, that’s just putting a lit match next to a whisky soaked powder keg.

Oh, just fucking kill me.

As I prepare for what may be my last day (circle all that apply) on earth/ in Montana/in the United States/in the Pacific Northwest/outside of federal custody, a calmness washes over me.  This is something I must do.  If not for me, then for my Irish ancestors.  Saint Patrick’s Day was never an Irish holiday.  No, Micks don’t need to have a “holiday” as an excuse to drink.  I mean, I’m drinking right now.  Even so, the Irish are under a lot of pressure to show you wannabe Irish how it’s d0ne.  We have to kick it up a notch.  While you swill on Coors, we gulp Guinness.  While you drink your Jack Daniels, we up the game with Shannahan’s.  Long after your sorry asses are carted off to the ER to have you stomachs pumped, we’ve tapped our fourth keg.  You’re fucking lightweight Irish posers is what I’m saying.

Sure, many of you will end up with a skull shattering hangover the next morning.  I assure you, my kind is still fucking drinking.  After you’ve spewed the technicolored yawn into your toilet (or in your roommate’s shoe), we’ve had our fifth bar fight…  that morning.  Your mortal way of killing your liver and drinking years off your life means nothing to us.  We, as a people, need more.  Much more.

Babies.

Quick, ,where is the strangest/most awkward place you’ve ever come to after an all night bender?  Shut up!  I don’t need to hear it.  I already know it’s lame.  Unless your story includes ice skates, a Canadian Mountie, or something with a tennis racket and the windshield of a car, spare me.  Amateur.

Hey, this kind of shit happens.

Anyhoo, what the hell was I saying?  Oh yeah, I’m better than you.  But, you already knew that.  Don’t get me wrong, I love you little people.  The obscene letters help get me through the day.  I know it has been your privilege to know, nay, LOVE me.  My absence will make your lives shallow and meaningless.  Quite frankly, I’m not sure how you can go on without me.

I'm not advocating anything here. Just making an observation.

Alas, I enter this Saint Patrick’s Day wide-eyed and packing a ton of Excedrin.  It will be a battle of wills.  On one side you have every drop of alcohol in the county.  On the other, me; a little blonde Irish girl with big dreams.  If I go down, I’ll go down fighting.  Or, I may go down on one of those hot bartender chicks.  I’ll do that before I go down fighting.  Shit, I lost my train of thought now.

Like I'm not gonna get me some of that.

So, as you hear the news of my (circle all that apply) death/detainment/immigration/enlistment/crime against humanity by way of (circle all that apply) family/friends/co-workers/classmates/CNN/Interpol, please know that I went out MY way; yelling Gaelic curses and double fisting whisky bottles.  Maybe there was a moose involved?  I don’t know, my track record for drunken chicanery is pretty extensive.

Can't a girl snuggle with her beer bottle without being labeled a "drunk?"

So, always remember me.  Don’t just remember me as a writer, a student, or a sex object.  Remember me as awesome.  And as a sex object.  I like that one, too.

There's no reason to put this sexy pic of Sarah Shahi here. I just think she's smoking hot.

Póg mo thóin!,

Ren

PS:  Of course, I could have just made an ass of myself and woken up in the lap of a mime (again).  If that’s the case, disregard all the above.  Well, except for the parts about me being awesome and a sex object.

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Posted on March 18, 2011, in Alcohol, Family, Holidays, Life Lessons, Ren and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. I just want to let you know thats some of the funniest shit I have ever read. Its a shame you werent out with me on St Pattys Day perhaps it wouldnt have been so damn lame.

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