Texts That Ruin Brunch

Texts That Ruin Brunch

Brunch is literally perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I always ask prospective future ex-girlfriends a critical MFK: brunch, sushi, chipotle. If they don’t marry brunch, I won’t marry them*. So yeah, I take my brunching really seriously. And nothing, I repeat nothing, is worse than getting an ill-timed text when you’ve just tossed on your finest brunch threads and are about to whisk yourself out the door to a land flowing with bacon and Bloody Marys.

These are texts that ruin brunch.

Pick up some Dunkin sandwiches on the way? It’s gonna be like a 90 minute wait, but trust me this place is like totally worth it.

So is it that they don’t know how to take a reservation, or are they having difficulties with the holding part?

Heads up, (your ex) is coming. Hope that’s okay.

For fuck’s sake, why is your roommate’s girlfriend still friends with that sociopath?

Oh, um, actually they DON’T have TVs at this place but aren’t they just playing the Browns?

I mean yeah, but Tom Brady is back and I only get 19 of these days a year. But sure, that’s fine.

Actually, we were thinking of doing brunch at our place. Pick up some uncured grass fed bacon on the way?

If I wanted to just eat normal scrambled eggs and drink whatever we didn’t finish last night, I’d do it here. Without pants. And maybe after a long relaxing morning jack-off sesh. What’d I even get in the shower for?

Ah, yeah, we’ll see you there but I think we’re gonna just lounge and watch Netflix afterward.

What the fuck – don’t they known brunch is a gateway drug?

Just be prepared, those $3 mimos are only for the first two.

Are you hinting that I should sneak in a flask, or?

Hey man, not going to make it. Still with that chick from last night I left the bar with.

What an IDIOT! What a LOSER! Good. Good, more for me and you. And by more, I mean those carafes of pineapple mimos.

Hey man, I’m gonna bring that chick I left the bar with, just FYI.

She didn’t seem like a girl who had a death wish but alas, here we are.

Let’s talk today, we miss you.

Dammit, mom. Fine. Just don’t tell me I drink too much when I’m clearly slurring my words and being surprisingly talkative. But I swear, if you even think of FaceTiming me.

Hey it’s [sexual encounter from last weekend]. This is kinda awk, but when was the last time you got tested?

The hostess who told us it’d be twenty minutes, like, forty-five minutes ago is testing the fuck out of my patience. Does that count?

Verizon Msg: You’re almost out of overage data. You have 1% remaining with 2 days left.

If the Maccabees could keep that one candle lit for eight days….

If you’re going to text me before, during, or even after brunch, it better be good fuckin’ news. Otherwise, you’re probably ruining my brunch.

*Brunch wears a sundress and is classy and is the kind of girl you bring home to mom. Sushi is a little minx. She’s exotic and fiery. But at the end of the day, you’re not sure you like what it looks like the morning after. Chipotle gets its face blown in by a murderous Ed Harris a la Westworld.

Image via Shutterstock

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Boston Max

Spending my retirement fund at Trader Joe's and trying to remember to check my mailbox semi-regularly

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