-It amuses me that after all these years, my parents still ask what I did this weekend and expect a meaningful response. After all, I’m single and thirty. My Fridays consist of furiously emailing with the boys to figure out which bar to hit, going to said bar, then getting obscenely drunk. My Saturdays consist of sleeping late, trying to remember what the fuck happened the night before, furiously emailing with the boys to determine which bar to go to, and then ending up at the same spot we hit on Friday. Sundays are for recapping and napping. I’m a weekend warrior, Mom. There’s no time for hiking or museums or culture. That shit is for couples…or days when you and Dad are visiting.

-A few weeks ago, I went out with some buddies and we all got totally demolished. Several days later, my friend called me and said, “Listen, Karo, I feel really bad about last weekend. I shouldn’t have said that to you, it was offensive, and I’m sorry.” But there was one thing I don’t think he realized – I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. In fact, I don’t even remember him being there. So of course I responded, “That was fucked up, man! But if you buy me a round next time we’ll call it even.”

-Fact: if the DJ plays “Girls” by the Beastie Boys, at least 50% of the bar will prematurely sing the line “Jockin’ Mike D. to my dismay.”

-I recently spent twenty minutes insisting to a Hollywood bouncer that my friend’s name was on the list and therefore he should let me in. He snootily claimed he couldn’t find her name and brushed me aside. Pissed off yet determined, I called my friend to come outside. Turns out she was on the list – but I was using her maiden name. She’s been married for nearly four years. I wish I never left the house.