An Apology Letter From Your Blacked Out Friend

August 22nd 2014

I’m guilty.

And so are you.

Of being THAT friend that’s so damn


That we end up looking like this:

That's us.

Oh the (lack of) memories.


Maybe it’s not us.


We’ve got that token amigo that can’t seem to get their shit together EVER when even just a wisp of alcohol is involved

Okay who keeps inviting Judy?!


So behalf of me, you and our dear friend Judy




An on-hand apology letter has been concocted just for us—filled to the margins with collected (and true) episodes from our batshit friends involving blacked out adventures that we’re apologizing for like this:

Olive & Nicole Detamble present

An Apology Letter From Your Blacked Out Friend

Dear, You.

You being everyone.

And everyone being:

My roommate who only knows I made it home alive via the trail of pizza sauce leading to my bedroom.

Grateful every day you don't open the door.

Grateful every day you never open the door.

Cabbie who attempts to drive me home whilst I subject him to my romantic woes.

You know what I mean, Jared?

Ya feel me, Raul?

Guys 2 apartments down from me who consequently get a live “remix” performance of “Awesome God” that unfortunately echoes up and down the halls. But just so you know. When you yell “Shut up whore” I always think you’re saying “Hows about that encore” but only because

majesty og sonf gif

Sorry local pizza guy who always has an entire pizza pie at the ready whenst I kick down the door circa 2am

pizza bite gif

Can’t figure out why I’m single.

Sorry to coworkers that I coerce into staying out for a “fireball fiesta”…resulting in a bare minimum work ethic the very next day:


I’m sorry. 

For blacking out. Coming home. Drinking all your yoohoos and then screaming an impromptu rap song called “chocolate drink in skating rinks”

Just add Yoohoo

Just add Yoohoo


You knew it was gonna be that kind of night when I texted you around 8 p.m to “please meet me at the bar that we consciously try to avoid.”  And this debauchery was confirmed around 10:01 p.m. when I texted you to say I invented a new drink called Vokda & TonkaTruck.

And that I had 7.

And also a Rum and choke.

…that I felt the need to make a song for too…

Toppin the charts.

Toppin the charts over here.

…And again at 10:23 p.m. when the only readable words in my passionate text messages that seemed to survive autocorrect were “fried”, “garlic butter”and “I’m feeling spicy.”

Told ya.


 …And probably one more time around 1:14 a.m. when you were sound asleep like a normal human on a weeknight and I left you an extensive voicemail about how we needed to purchase “Fresh Belgian french fries from Kuwait” and never go back to “Hurricane Hanks” because of “Kevin with The Shirt” and “Sarah with the Jew Pants.” I don’t even know what that means. Just that I started talking to someone on the sidewalk and dubbed them my friend because our shoes were the same color which segued into a conversation that got really deep.

Bonding in progress.

Bonding in progress. 

A second apology to the cabbie for incessantly dancing in the street and waving you down robot style, and telling you when I got in the car that I was a “just a mammal with a lot of feelings” and that you should listen to my latest hit “Hibernation Sensation” that goes something like this


Dance sold separately


I shouldn’t have tried to pay you in tic tacs. Or my Panera rewards card either. That wasn’t cool. Neither was telling you the address of my old apartment instead of my current one.

And not realizing it >>>>>> until I was halfway

<<<<<<< (not) home.

Thanks for turning up that song I like, listening to me sing it off key and not minding the fact that I was obviously snapchatting my face and probably yours too.

Just passin the time back here. Don't mind me...

Just passin the time back here. Don’t mind me…


Booty call bound.

Booty call bound.


I hope you enjoyed me moonwalking away from you car. I can only imagine I looked amazing.

Called it.

Called it.


Sorry to my significant other for buzzing into your apartment 50 times to the theme song of Friends.


Thing is.

I just had to tell you about my new business plan that I wrote down in my notes to have water taxis take people to bars on boats. ALL THEY WOULD HAVE TO DO is bring their swim trunks, and their “flippy floppies.”


He gets it.


I’m also sorry for eating pizza in your bed and getting ranch all over your floor and begging you to download Mulan and then crying because I had nightmares about huns. Not to mention I broke into your spice cabinet and poured “chicken seasoning” all over my snack and then tried to make out. I guess that’s not what you meant by “spicing things up in the bedroom…”


My bad to my boss for being absolutely worthless post week-day rager and giving you food envy when I order three McGriddles with everything on it and an extra large iced coffee.

Come to mama.

Come to mama.  


Sorry diet for totally fucking you up with all the foods. And sorry exercise plan I had for this week because you’re pretty much done for. Very sorry to the college version of myself because you thought mature decisions would set in by now but they really just…haven’t…


Sorry Japanese Steakhouse I texted thinking you were my mom.

And sorry mom, because well – just sorry.

I hope you can all forgive me. Peeing in your bed was just a three time thing! I’m really quite embarrassed.

Don't look at me.

Don’t look at me.


But then again.

party gif

Bagels, Booze and Probably A Bra,

Olive, Nicole…And Judy

Still no

Still no Judy…still…no.