An Intervention Letter Written by Someone With Very Little Grasp of the Concept

Dear Becky,

Have you seen my keys? I cannot find them anywhere. I checked by the coffee maker, the snack table—everywhere. I’m not sure why I’m having such a difficult time locating them, but it may be an indirect result of your substance abuse problem.

I’m planning a trip to Seattle next month, and I was wondering if you might have any recommendations with regard to good places to stay. I don’t want to get caught staying in another Best Western with moldy carpets and a Spanish concierge again. Honestly, that trip was a disaster. I never should have booked it at the last minute using AirBNB. I swear that nowhere did that ad mention that I would have to share my room with that couple from Missouri, and the fact that the room came with only a single double bed meant that it required several attempts to finally rid myself of the athlete’s foot I contracted after having that guy’s feet rub up against mine during the night. I didn’t even realize that you could get athlete’s foot on your face, but that is why I would advise against ever sleeping head-to-toe if you ever find yourself in that situation, Becky.

Although given your present penchant for week-long meth benders, I’d say that you have more pressing concerns when passing-out in drainage ditches alongside I-80 or deep inside of another Buffalo Wild Wings dumpster, to say nothing of the hepatitis B and C you contracted back in your needle-sharing heroin days.

And can I say that I find this particular diagnosis more than a little ironic, given that you were never able to earn either a single B or C in high school? Of course, you were always pretty wasted in those days, too. Rest assured that if they handed out grades for being able to hold your liquor while completing Driver’s Ed, you’d have finally earned an A for sure!

That reminds me: I was also wondering if you might have that copy of The Da Vinci Code I lent you a few years back? I really don’t think it should take you this long to finish reading it—it’s practically a young-adult reading level text, and I wanted to read it again to look for any connection to my 7th grade gym teacher, who I’m convinced is part of an Illuminati conspiracy. Even if he’s not, he was at least way too interested in my bathing habits back in school, and he was always keen to point out whenever I missed a spot while showering after one of our bi-weekly tickle fights in his office.

Additionally, you still owe me 20 bucks from that time I helped you buy those songs on the jukebox at The Thirsty Bear. This was a year-and-a-half ago, and the only music you played with the money I gave you was Bare Naked Ladies and the Spice Girls. I was surprised they would even have these selections on the jukebox there, but apparently you wanted to hear “Spice up your life” seven times in a row that day, and it really annoyed the other patrons who were an unrecognizable shade of brown, making it unclear as to whether they were the scary kind of brown or the funny transatlantic kind. But rest assured that they were not as thoroughly entertained by your musical tastes as your dancing on the bar and making out with that bearded biker indicated that you were.

And yet I stuck up for you that day, even though it earned me a spilled drink all down the front of my shirt by that girl who I really did think looked like Sporty Spice but who apparently did not appreciate the comparison. I’ll admit that I probably should have specified “Sporty Spice” as opposed to saying “the manly looking bull dyke,” but I was already like six-and-a-half beers in, and recalling the names of all the Spice Girls was not something that I had prepared myself for earlier that afternoon.

Lastly, Becky, I don’t know if you heard that Julie is going to cook a turducken for our Memorial Day picnic this year, but it’s sort of something I’ve been meaning to bring up with you because I feel that we’re both on the same page with regard to this: Julie is a conceited bitch and no one wants a goddamn turducken at a Memorial Day picnic.

Last year I saw her spread catchup on her turkey sandwich—ketchup, Becky.

On a turkey sandwich.

How the hell can you even pretend to be friends with someone like that? It’s unconscionable. She may as well spread that ketchup on her vagina and let that cross-eyed Mormon guy with the open sores around his mouth who works the deli counter at the Safeway lick it off of her.

I mean, I know I slept with her sister that one time, but that was years ago, and I’m pretty sure she was passed out at the time anyway, so why pretend like we have to remain in contact with her? And does the fact that her sister has Down Syndrome even matter at this point? You don’t have to be friends with someone just because they have a mentally disabled sister, Becky. That’s just ridiculous. This picnic would be so much better without her and her cock-sucking turducken.

Anyway, if you see my keys, please return them.



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