Seriously. If I don’t die from the immenent heart attack that I’m supposidly going to have, I’m going to die of too many holiday fricken parties.

“Hey Elon, people dying shouldn’t be partying.”

Yeah, I know. I think to myself, “Dude, really? This can’t end well” Yet I go out and I’m all holiday cheer and shit. My heart is running on fumes at this point.

At some point when I was at the Kissing Booth, the bartendar who bartends on for Paprika as well just gave me a bottle of champagne. And I felt obliged to drink said bottle.

Why lord why?

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