2016 is already a wet fart while wearing white pants.

So, it’s 2016.

As it turns out, exes and explosive diarrhea weren’t left behind in 2015. Cool. (Dear Apocalypse, Anytime now. Seriously. Please.)

I guess I hoped that by some Harry Potter magic situation all my bad decisions and vomit inducing sexual exploits would have disappeared into a beautiful, glittery fog. Obviously I should have done a ton of drugs on New Years Eve since I was clearly hoping for some Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind shit and wanted to eliminate my long-term memory and start fresh. That didn’t happen. My New Years Eve ended with me watching my home girl deep throat one of those street dogs covered in bacon and semen and then trying to fight off a dog to eat half a sandwich before just giving up the fight, taking an Ambien and a half dozen muscle relaxers, and blacking out to Bob’s Burgers.

I actually felt pretty good about this new year for a few days. I envisioned myself trying to live a better, healthier life and getting a better paying job and a super sweet apartment and only nailing 7’s and up here on out and really just kind of killin it at adulting. Then my life took a big dump on my chest and reminded me that vegetables are fucking demons and there is no life without French fries and booze and I can’t afford a better apartment then the box I live in and I don’t really want to have to step up my game to play in the big leagues of getting dick and no. I’m not killin it. It’s killin me seems to be more accurate. At least I know what having “hope” felt like for a few days. But honestly, whatever, I’m getting cheese fries.

The biggest reminder that absolutely nothing has changed since December 31st involved an ex. Not even my ex. A friend’s ex. When it’s not even your own ex that’s ruining your life you know it’s the end times.

My friend and I decided to get beers and not vegetable food at a bar I frequented almost daily when I lived in my previous apartment. There’s always a risk that we’ll run into an ex, or a one night stand, or a three night stand, or an alley BJ; but their beer selection is stellar and their bar food is necessary after three straight days of starvation/binge drinking.  The sun was still out so we figured we were safe. What a couple of dumb bitches.

About halfway into our first pitcher I saw a look of panic on my friend’s face. I immediately assumed it was my ex and tried to figure out how I could catapult from our booth to the door without being seen. Seemed like I could probably do it. Then she said these awful words: “The Silver Fox is here.”

Let me give a brief background on this. The Silver Fox is a 50ish year old man that I found my friend in the bathroom of this bar with one night and then they did a lot of coke and boning for a while. The end.

I felt bad for her, but also the immediate diarrhea that was about to happen when I thought it was one of my exes went away so that made me feel kind of saved by black Jesus or something. We discussed fleeing for our lives, but we had just ordered another pitcher and you never leave a man behind. Especially if he’s a delicious pitcher of cold beer. Also, he’s not going to come over and talk to us. I mean he’s old and probably out of coke and people should know better than to interrupt a lady when she’s balls deep in tater tots. Have some respect.

Just when we got comfortable and life was great again, it came over to us.

Another slight backtrack. The morning after the night that I was too concerned with getting the D myself and let my friend leave the bar with Father Time, she called me and I maybe yelled into the phone loud enough for him to hear, “Did you fuck that old man!?”. So, he likes me a lot, pretty much.

Anyway, it approached. I didn’t know if I should scream “Fire!”, stab him with my fork, smile, or start crying. I know dudes hate when ladies cry so that probably would’ve been my best plan of action. Unfortunately all common sense fell out of my asshole and I shoved a tater tot in my mouth and started chugging my beer. Sorry girl, you’re on your own.

It starts talking to my friend. It got really fucking weird, really fucking fast. My friend couldn’t form complete sentences because she wanted to die so the exchange went something like this:

It: “Hi. How are you?”

My friend: “Hi.”

It: “How are things? How’ve you been?”.

My friend: “Mmhm.”

Seriously. She literally put her legs up in the booth so he couldn’t sit down. But I think with old people they don’t understand subtle social cues. Lesson learned, next time I’m screaming fire and stealing his Life Alert. So it kept trying to make conversation. Then, the ultimate shade was thrown. It introduced itself to me and tried to shake my hand.

Ok. NOW IT’S ON MOTHER FUCKER. How dare Coronel Sanders pretend he doesn’t know me!? I don’t know YOU Colonel Sanders! I tried to reach an octave that’s acceptable to human ears while reminding him that he’s very fucking aware of who I am. My phone calls me Beyonce. Get your shit together old man!!

Now I’m pissed because that wrinkly balled son of a bitch tried to punk me and my friend is even closer to slitting her wrists with a butter knife and it still won’t go away. It just stands there asking weird questions and staring at us. Things have gone too far. He wasn’t even my ex but I was getting stress induced butt crack sweat. Life is a sick fucking joke guys.

After what seemed about 34 years, it must have realized that it was not allowed to sit with us and mumbled awkward parting words and moved away. At this point I wanted to flip a fucking table and stab everyone. My life is at the point where other people’s exes are it. NO.

I thought we had kept it pretty classy during this whole exchange. I didn’t even go Naomi Campbell on him for making eye contact with me by throwing my phone at his face. I didn’t throw a drink. I didn’t even pepper spray him. We chugged our beers, paid the tab and got the fuck out of there before it drank more and tried to get in the car with us. As we walked out, we laughed through the pain and hugged like survivors of war do. Then, something amazing happened.

During this whole situation a couple was sitting at a table kind of close to our booth. They seemed to be fully interested in some sporting event situation that was happening on the tv above us so we didn’t think they were paying any attention to our little telenovela playing out before them. But as we’re walking the guy stops us and says, “Dude, what was up with that old guy?”. DEAD.

My friend’s reply: “Oh my god. I used to do a lot of coke and I had sex with it. But then I stopped doing coke.”

Best. Explanation. Ever. Honestly, the horror that we had endured was suddenly worth it. The couple who looked like they hated everything were so into it. I’m gonna say it, I think we saved their relationship.

If my exes and my friend’s exes are going to follow me into 2016, at least let our mistakes inspire others and remind ladies and dudes that maybe their partner isn’t that bad. Also, friends don’t let friends fuck old men. Even if they have really good coke.

Happy 2016 mother fuckers.