For some reason I can’t explain, I’ve recently had an urge to apologize to some of the people I’ve messed with over the past twenty or so years. No, it’s not part of a twelve-step program or anything of the sort. It’s just a few poor bastards who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
> To the girls who left their camera in my friend’s car after a party back in the day and I took the liberty of taking a few very… um…. candid shots. I’m sorry. I’m sorry the camera ran out of film.
> To the uber large, steroid-eating, shot-putting freak who lived in Erickson Hall that I sent into ‘roid rages every time after I prank called him after me and my buddy’s came home drunk each weekend. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name or I would still be doing it.
> To the guy whose shoes I stole while he was passed out on the lobby couch at the Holiday Inn in Janesville, WI. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t take my girlfriend’s lipstick, eye shadow and mascara, and make you look like a tranny. You would have had a much better story to tell your friends twenty years later.
> To the dude on the L back in ’92 who had obvious issues with people touching him, even ever so slightly. I’m sorry for sitting next to you and making a point of exaggerating my lean every time we took a curve and tapping you on your arm and asking you for help with the NY Times crossword, making you howl like a dog and claw yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t get that on tape.
> To the Eagle Brook Country Club for peeing in your pool. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t have diarrhea.
Ok, I feel much better now that I got that off my chest.