Breaking News: White Claw Canceled After Being Compared to Carbonated Depression

Dear Alcohol,

Sit down. We need to talk.

You and I? We go way back. You were there for my first heartbreak, my last bad haircut, and every questionable karaoke performance in between. For years, I thought you were my wingman — my ride-or-die who made me funnier, braver, and allegedly sexier. (Spoiler: you just made me loud, sweaty, and convinced I could finally prove why Pluto should get its planet card back.)

But lately, you’ve been showing your true colors, and wow… they’re ugly. You leave me feeling like I got hit by a bus, dragged through a Taco Bell parking lot, and dumped in the Lost & Found bin of life. Two days of misery in exchange for three hours of “fun”? That’s not a bargain — that’s a scam. Honestly, you’re worse than those subscription boxes that send me artisanal snacks I didn’t even like.

Let’s be real: you’re toxic. Not in the fun, Britney Spears way. More like black mold in the walls — creeping, destructive, and guaranteed to ruin my vibe. You gaslight me into thinking I “need” you to loosen up, then punish me for trusting you. You’re the ex who still shows up to family events uninvited, acting like everyone missed you. Newsflash: they didn’t.

And while we’re dragging you, let’s address the obvious: you don’t even taste that good. You’re bitter, sour, or weirdly syrupy, depending on your costume of the night. Beer? Tastes like bread water. White Claw? Like someone whispered the name of a fruit over carbonated sadness. Whiskey? Straight-up liquid fire. Wine? Every glass whispers, “hope you like headaches and purple teeth, bitch.” And yet you still have the audacity to act like you’re gourmet. Bad taste, bad aftertaste — honestly, you’re the liquid equivalent of a gas station hot dog.

And let’s talk about your fashion sense. You dress up as champagne at brunch, beer at barbecues, White Claw at the beach — like some shapeshifting con artist. But underneath all the labels and bubbles, you’re the same manipulative little demon juice.

So here it is: I’m done. I’m breaking up with you. Cold. Turkey. Don’t call, don’t text, don’t slide into my DMs with “just one drink.” I’m blocking your number, unfollowing you on Instagram, and sending your hoodies to Goodwill.

You’re not the main character of my story anymore. Hell, you’re not even comic relief. You’re that background extra nobody remembers.

So goodbye, and take your cheap thrills, your overpriced cocktails, and your shitty morning-after apologies with you. I’ve got better things to do than babysit a hangover.

xo,

Jade