From the Desk of Gretchen Jones

Dear Monica,

I humbly pen this letter on the eighth day of December to request a grave favor from you. Through unfortunate luck, I have won an open bar for me and my twelve closest friends to be held on December twenty-fourth at O’Brien’s Pub. In what I can only assume was an act of self-sabotage, I put my name in a drawing whilst drunk on five-dollar pints at a work happy hour. Yet, I am left unsure how I will corral twelve individuals in the pit of Chicago winter on the eve of such a commercialized holiday. Now that reality has come to bite me on the anus, each passing day is another slow begrudging step toward my demise.

Hence, I call upon you, lovely Monica. You may wonder why I beckon you for the favor of your attendance, of all people, given that I recently called you an “ugly bitch” on your birthday – which was also the same day your apartment flooded, your boyfriend broke up with you, your father denounced you, you were given two months left to live, and your hamster passed away while looking you in the eyes.

Alas, I am at my wit’s end. Since I began my correspondence, five persons have confirmed, three have said they were interested, one hundred thirty-nine have said no, and one said he would try to swing by once he finished the postal delivery in my neighborhood.

December twenty-fourth weighs on my soul. ‘Tis the day all color will fade, all taste will be sour, and all smell will turn foul. Please, darling Monica, put me out of my misery. Show yourself, and bring Rachel, Emmy, Kristen, Brooke, and Paul, or literally anyone else.

I will repay with libations, as it is, an open bar.

Your dear friend,

Gretchen Jones

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 From the Desk of Gretchen Jones

Dear Monica,

I humbly pen this letter on the ninth day of December with an amendment to the first. Please remove Paul from the list of hopeful attendees as I forgot he broke up with you.

Your dearest friend,

Gretchen Jones