At the bar:

1. This particular barmaid should not wear a shirt that says “Cutie.” Unless you are undeniably hot, or have a huge rack, you really shouldn’t go claiming this sort of thing. On other nights I’ve noticed that she also has one that says “Foxy,” and, inexplicably, one that reads, “Buh! I don’t even know you!”, so perhaps she took advantage of some sort of 3-pack sale. Still, no excuse.

2. It never fails to freak me out that a large paragraph of graffitti in the women’s restroom seems to be scrawled in my high school boyfriend’s very distinct handwriting.

3. If you didn’t want me to write things on the walls, you shouldn’t have handed me a Sharpie during my 23rd birthday alcohol-extravaganza. Regret won’t erase it. (I cringe too when I read the one about You Know Who, but it’s up too high on the wall for me to cross it out. Was I somehow taller at 23, or was it just some sort of cocktail stilts?)

4. A few things you should know about me and the jukebox:

a) I will always get a tiny crush on any boy who plays the Ramones’ I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend. Don’t worry; it will pass.

b) I will always sing along to Warren Zevon’s Werewolves of London, drunk or sober. Same goes for Abba’s S.O.S., probably in a Swedish accent. Every girl at the table will eventually chime in. Roll your eyes all you want, boys; it’s fun.

c) If I’m really drunk, the odds of me playing REO Speedwagon’s Take it on the Run and changing the verses as I see fit are off the charts.

5. On a related note, don’t let Brian B. near the jukebox if he’s really drunk, because he thinks it’s funny to play Billy Squier’s The Stroke three times in a row.

6. We are the wittiest, prettiest, savviest girls in the room. Everyone else is a ho. I mean, did you see her pants? Please.