Hey, I get it. Snobby rich kids constantly feel the need to rebel against their piccolo classes and Brooks Brothers sweater vests. It’s a rough gig, and anyone in their highly polished $700 shoes would feel the same. But here’s the thing: As much as I understand where these kids are coming from, I am not some angry, rich, white kid. I am an angry, rich, white woman who was simply doing rage yoga to cope with my crippling gluten sensitivity, as recommended by my life coach. So, you see, there’s really no legitimate reason I should be charged for the damage done to my hotel room.
I Am Truly Sorry About All The Noise Complaints
I’m sorry I was so loud that several other guests on my floor asked to have their rooms comped and your esteemed establishment was slapped with seven different public obscenity charges. In my defense, Margaux was being all passive-aggressive earlier, saying she appreciated my bravery for sporting a gray ombre dye job that was so 2018. Was I just supposed to bottle that up and pretend it never happened? Did you want me to just hold onto that anger until I end up with cancer? Exactly. Now you see why I couldn’t stop screaming about that “insensitive twat waffle.”
Yes, I Know Was Drunk, But …
This wasn’t your typical “rager.” This was rage yoga, which explicitly calls for alcohol to set the mood. After getting all those toxic feelings out, your body needs something to bring you back down to a calmer state. That’s what those 19 beers and three bottles of Scotch were for. I don’t even usually drink alcohol. Except in social settings, obviously. And at fancy restaurants and special events. I’m not an animal. I mean, I like the occasional wine before bedtime and all, but only because my life coach assured me it would increase my sleep quality and overall well-being. It’s not like I was drinking Boone’s Farm or something. That was single-malt Scotch. The finest craft beers. The only “problem” I have is Margaux’s fat mouth, so I respectfully decline the judge’s suggestion of mandatory Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.
This Bill Is A Form Of Persecution
I know you have to repair the T.V. I threw out the window, the hole I kicked in the headboard of the bed, the dents I left in the dresser with my ex-husband’s golf club, and the towels that mysteriously went missing in the chaos. But I feel it’s unfair to blame me for the results of my rage yoga. If someone had a seizure in your hotel bar and fell into a stack of beer steins, would you charge them for the damage? What if an elderly man had a heart attack, grabbed a wall tapestry to stabilize himself, and tore the whole thing down on his way to the ground? You’d feel bad for him. Yet you harass me for working through the violent emotions I felt watching Fyre Fraud for the third time.
This is unjust, discriminatory, defamatory, and a bunch of other words I sometimes hear my attorney say. You’ll be hearing them from him yourself soon enough, bucko. Just as soon as I wriggle out of these handcuffs.