January 1st, 2018: O Liver! My Liver!

So, I ate 11 kinds of cheese and tried cocaine for the first time.

the scene of the latest in many crimes against you

New Years Day, 2018

An Open Letter to My Liver,

Hey, buddy. We made it! I sincerely was not sure that we would. I’m so grateful you stayed by my side, under my ribs, through thick and thin.

Mostly thick.

Last night, Steph’s New Year’s Eve party got a little nuts, huh? I know I danced too hard and drank too much, but, man, everything about 2017 seems so miserable and uncertain, I just wanted to purge it out and feel good for a while, you know?

So, I ate 11 kinds of cheese and tried cocaine for the first time.

Sorry about that.

Not sorry.

All this year I’ve been seeking comfort in any place I could find it. Unfortunately for you, liver, no one would put me in an adult swaddle, so my comforts tended to fall mostly on your little red shoulders. I ate a LOT of bread and Trader Joe’s Mocha Joe-Joe’s, and drank all the wine.

Pro tip: if you drink outside, technically, it’s a picnic.

Remember that one time, when the nuclear holocaust seemed especially imminent, and I smashed some Joe-Joe’s between 2 pieces of white bread and dipped it in NyQuil, and called it a “Hope is Dead Hoagie?”

I made the sandwich take this picture.

I’m not proud of it, but none of this is my fault.

Considering how barbaric and terrifying everything is, you can’t be disappointed in me for gaining 12 lbs, or moving a few ticks up the alcohol consumption survey my doctor keeps making me take.

I get to find my zen where I can, whether it’s sleeping with the drummer from the Coldplay cover band, or sleeping with everyone else in the Coldplay cover band, too. They actually were British, I think. Don’t worry. I don’t think they have Hepatitis in England.

Seriously, though, I am trying to do better for you, liver. I swear I am. You’re getting older, and you just don’t process the stream of toxins I’m sucking down like you once did.

I worry that all the mayonnaise I eat has ground your gears. That’s not my fault, either. They serve aioli with everything now, because restaurants understand we’re all in pain.

Cheaper than therapy.

How’s everybody else doing? Please tell gallbladder and appendix to hang in there. I can’t really afford to have them removed right now since I lost my health insurance so Paul Ryan could get his 3rd dick extension.

Do you think these guys would trade an appendectomy for some of my poetry?

Anyway, just wanted to check in. I’d like to tell you that I’m going to do a detoxifying juice cleanse and start eating right, drinking less, and exercising more, but you know better than anyone that I’m full of shit.

2018 is probably going to be just as much a dumpster fire as last year, so please just try to keep up.

Bless!

Management

Sarah Zimmerman is a freelance writer and a vocal silent partner in a vegan ice cream business. She has also written jokes about mayonnaise for Ravishly, Sammichs and Psych Meds, Mom.Me, Pregnant Chicken, Mommyish and more, and can be found on Facebook/Twitter with her blog, @bigtroubleblog.