Dear Liver,

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I am so sorry. 2012 was beyond brutal to you. (Okay, so…it might have been me that was brutal to you; I will fully admit to that.) I know you don’t want to hear my excuses for why I constantly abuse you, but please hear me out.

First off, let me just say that I never developed proper coping mechanisms as a child, Liver. I was the only daughter. My parents sheltered me and told me I was special. Growing up and learning that all of that was not true has been a brutal process. Really brutal. So brutal, in fact, that the only thing that got me through it was my dear friend Beer, and his power of making me think that I am special and awesome. I am so sorry. That is completely unfair to you.

Next, Liver, let me say that I have some social anxieties that make it hard for me to talk to people. I’ve been single for over a year now, so the stress of meeting new people is at an all-time high. The only thing that helps me relieve that stress is sweet, sweet Uncle Whiskey, whose support makes me feel sexy and fun (he makes me think that other people are sexy and fun, too). Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, Liver. I could not be more embarrassed of my actions.

Liver, oh dear, sweet Liver: I did not pay attention in D.A.R.E. I did not learn to deal with peer pressure, or how to talk myself out of another shot of Comrade Vodka. Perhaps if I’d listened to Officer Dave rather than trade love notes with Joel Halloway, I could have spared us both a lot of hurt—or at least spared myself a night with an ex. I am, again, so sorry.

I have no excuse for the Jägerbombs. I just love to party. Sorry.

I should tell you this more: I love you. You get me. Do I need protein? BAM—you’ve been storing it! Is there bacteria in my blood stream? WHAMO—you’ve removed it. Am I worrying about blood clots? FUCK NO—you regulate that shit 24/7.

If I’m going to stick with any new year’s resolution this year, it’s to be better to you, my most trustworthy ally. I might even try to successfully complete the Wild Rose Cleanse this year, but we both know that I have been a failure at that in the past (I just love bread so god damn much).

I will likely drink as much this coming year as I did last year. I’m a scumbag like that. I hurt you, I abuse you, I put you through hell—but I really do love you. Never leave me, please?

With love,

PS: A friend is going through a break-up, so I can almost guarantee that you will be subjected to Señor Tequila tonight. Sorry.