If you don't have a tongue for Yiddish, or you spent the year posting and reposting articles about how cultural appropriation is MORE LIKE CULTURAL INAPPROPRIATION BECAUSE IT'S INAPPROPRIATE, SHAME ON YOU IGGY AZALEA or whatever, you can call it Complainoween (the game is the same).
So gather up your bitterest friends, drink somewhere between two-and-a-half and three old fashioneds with those real good cherries, make sure nobody whose main setting is "I'M OUTRAGED" can hear you, and get to complaining. The only rule: You have to own it—don't make it a conditional kvetch. You don't need to say, "first-world problem." You don't need to preface everything with, "Thank you for the opportunity to share my experience, Willow. Putting aside my tremendous privilege...." You can spend the rest of the week doing that, but for now Willow has to shut up and let you complain. I'll start.
WEED
Listen, I love weed. I truly do. Last night I got really stoned and danced around my apartment to "Return of the Mack" by Mark Morrison on repeat. Did I change the lyrics to "Return of the Snacks," while I made myself a small deluxe arrangement of on-hand snacks? Of course I fucking did. Weed is wonderful, but HAS WEED GONE TOO FAR? It's fucking everywhere, now. Every store in Portland sells one of three things: stuff for your condo (like terrariums or ceramic pots), unique cheese and pink salt, or weed. Marijuana needs to be scarce, because marijuana is too good. You know how you don't buy Oreos at the grocery store, because then you'll have Oreos at your house and you'll inevitably end up standing over your sink eating an entire package of Oreos? Weed is even better than Oreos. Also, none of us need marijuana-infused cuisine, so let's stop that shit right the fuck now. Weed brownie? Wonderful, traditional, heartwarming. Weed Cornish game hen? You're doing too much, Willow. Just get stoned and drive to Popeyes.
