can turn thirty
then so must J.Ro.
As I leave behind vintage J.Ro, I vow to relinquish 29 habits that have aided in creating my current reality.
No more birthday parties, unless somebody else plans it. After thirty, planning your own birthday means you’re single and close to suicide, or married and close to divorce.
No more shopping with others. Shopping is a necessity to garner sex, not an activity to garner memories.
No more straight girlfriends. If you’re a straight girl and I befriend you, rest assured I’m using you for something.
No more growing. On the bright side, flying coach is a lot less irritating than it would be if I were normal sized.
No more acting interested in vegans. I’m too hungry for rules.
No more acting interested in learning French. I’m too American to invest such energy in another culture.
No more trips to Vegas. Waking up in Treasure Island with Chlamydia isn't my idea of a vacation anymore.
No more cheap seats. If I’m going to see a Madonna concert, I wanna witness the botox up close.
No more layovers. Regardless of price, I’m purchasing the direct ticket. It’s only credit card debt.
No more listening to your drama, unless it contains numerous LOL moments.
No more using the abbreviation LOL.
No more helping you move apartments. If you were successful you’d own a house, and this wouldn’t be an issue.
No more giving money to charities that harass by mail. They use my donation to fund mailings to five other people. It’s like an evil chain letter.
No more logos. If it’s larger than the Lacoste alligator, I demand residuals for promoting.
No more cheap wine. I feel about cheap wine the way Gwyneth Paltrow feels about cheese out of a tube; I’d rather smoke crack.
No more smoking crack. Not that I ever did, but my window for acceptably experimenting with Whitney Houston type drugs has officially closed.
No more Sex and the City. If given a stage, I could reenact all six seasons in a one man show. Time to find new nonexistent women to live through.
No more vodka shots. Unless it’s a lemon drop.
No more smoking pot. Unless friends peer pressure me into it.
No more spelling correctly. I’m too busy whitening my teeth to know the letters they help pronounce.
No more masturbating to celebrities. From now on, I’m drawing the line at co-workers.
No more thinking I’ll one day become a lawyer, or a surfer, or marry a lawyer who likes to surf.
No more worrying about abs. I live too close to Magnolia Bakery.
No more responding to favors requested via Facebook. If you need my help, have the decency to e-mail.
No more leaving my flat without floss. Food now clings to my gums like an A&E Hoarder clings to bags of kitty litter.
No more attending weddings without a plus one. I’d rather stay home, recite Plath, and heat the oven to 450.
No more acting nice. I'm not a good enough actor for it.
No more being on time. My time is too important.
No more sending birthday cards to people not old enough to read them. I’m glad your child is turning two, but those cards that sing Aretha Franklin are too f*cking expensive.
It’s a lot to relinquish, but at least I’m not bitter.