Though betches have few feelings, we sometimes have regrets. These are usually reserved for one day. Sunday. In the spirit of the second worst day of the week, here a list of a betch’s typical Sunday regrets.
Walk of Shame: During those occasions when a betch blacks out and #8 sometimes fucks a bro, and it’s not in the comfort of her own bed (side note: this often happens because betches are forced to wind up at his place where the prepaid drugs are), she has to endure the walk of shame. After realizing she’s not at home, a betch will first contemplate if this is a rare occasion when last night’s outfit was casual enough to pick up some iced coffee on the way home without having some businessman think she’s a hooker and solicit her for sex. Since your apartment is about a 90 second walk from this bro’s, you decide to take the hike.
When Lionel Ritchie wrote Easy Like Sunday Morning, it’s hard to imagine that he was thinking of anything other than watching a betch take her morning walk of shame.
While making a mental list of everyone this bro knows and is likely to tell that you fucked him, you head out the door. That’s when you see the nice girl from your biology class with her backpack, clearly headed to the library. You could duck and hide behind a street sign but you’re a betch so you have no shame. You’d rather walk through your college town with enough eyeliner down your face that you look like a member of fucking KISS than let this betch-hater think you have something to hide. She is clearly a fucking loser since she’s on the way to the library, and hey, you got laid last night while she was reading Jodi Picoult! Walk tall betch… after all, your pumps make you look almost 6 feet.
Sex without a Condom: Shit, have to get Plan B.
Sex with the guy in your Monday morning class: Shit, have to ask him for money for Plan B… along with his class notes from last week.
Drunk eating: It’s funny that I can spend all week eating lettuce without dressing, but after three shots of tequila I find myself ordering 28 boneless wings with extra bleu cheese and an order of fried cheesecake.
Blackout Texts: Similar to drunk eating, blackout texts matter, even though you don’t remember sending them. But unlike drunk eating, text messages are permanently out there to be read aloud to any audience, even if you deleted them from your own phone. No amount of working out on the elliptical will eliminate them from cyber space. They definitely provide excellent Sunday morning stories, but usually at a serious cost.
Sometimes it’s just sending one really embarrassing text:
Me: I’m DTF.
Sometimes it’s texting the wrong person the wrong thing: To the guy you fucked with the small penis… Me: I couldn’t even feel John’s penis when he fucked me John: What? Me: Shit sorry, wrong text, different John
(Side note: Is that any better?)
Consistently texting the same person who’s not responding:
Me: Hey, what’s up?
Me: Come over Me: Where are you? I’m at my apartment
Me: Are you not coming?
Me: Fine, don’t come over
Me: I’m naked
Me: You’re either coming over or you’re not.
Me: Fine, I’m over it
Me: Over it dot com
Me: Seriously, where are you?
And of course, there’s always the general drunk fuck up, such as when your best betch from high school visits and vomits in your shoes, and you wake up the next morning to find them in the dishwasher.
Sunday morning regrets, although traumatizing, leave a far funnier legacy than the sting of the embarrassment. Better to have drank and fucked up than not to have drank at all!