Dear Four Loko,

Are you there? It’s me, jwoww.

I heard the news today. At first, I didn’t want to believe it. Phusion Projects, your producer, announced that they would no longer be shipping you to New York state as of this Wednesday. At first, I questioned it. I was in a state of denial. Then, I found proof through the New York Times. The New York Times never lies. So I cried. I hit a wall. I ate my emotions in the form of ciabatta bread rolls and FroYo covered in all kinds of crap that defeated the purpose of eating a low-calorie form of ice cream. Afterwards, I watched re-runs of 16 & Pregnant to feel better about myself for not being a statistic. In a final fit of emotion, I used up whatever summer job money I had left to buy you out at the grocery store downstairs, so now I can’t buy food for about a week. Can you blame me? I’m in a state of mourning. In the back of my mind I knew that this would happen eventually, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. I thought we still had a little more time.

I remember the first
time we ever met….actually, I don’t. I blacked the f*** out. But I imagine it
was something beautiful and very much reminiscent of that “Had me at hello’ scene in Jerry Maguire, only a lot more shitfaced. I kind of sort of remember my
first sip, thinking that maybe a can of carbonated urine would taste better,
but there was something special about you that kept me coming back for more.
Maybe it was the fact that you could get me slurring my words within 15
minutes, or the fact that you cost less than a slice of Chicken Bacon Ranch at
Mama T’s. The most endearing thing, however, was that as soon as I was finished with
just one of you, you ever so nicely made me pass out before I could reach for
another. I could go from tipsy to drunk to wasted to blackout in under an hour
AND have enough energy to shout obscenities at the gaggles of sluts walk of
shaming it through Collegetown from the roof of my apartment building at five
in the morning.

You were my everything ““ my wingman, my best friend, my sole reason for making absolutely terrible immoral decisions every weekend. Remember that time you persuaded me that every ugly guy I met was in fact Channing Tatum, or that my awkward dancing was extremely sexy? Or how about when you convinced me to drunk dial my landlord and leave her an 8 minute voicemail about how someone threw a chocolate cupcake at the outside passenger door of my car? How about the time that you made me believe that I could win every game of Mario Kart by driving in reverse the entire time, or that I’d be able to walk into someone else’s home and steal an entire 30 rack of Keystone without them getting mad? Damnit, you were such an amazing friend. It’s because of you that I broke the breathalyzer I bought off of ebay from China for 95 cents after using it only once. That’s talent. You were so special, a true diamond in the rough. You instilled in me a confidence that was unsurpassed by any other alcoholic beverage (not even you, LITs), and for this I thank you (although I still need help brainstorming how to pawn off some sort of listerine/Barton’s/piss/Kool-Aid concoction to local high schoolers and tricking them into thinking it’s a Four Loko for a profit).

I love you, and you will be missed.

Yours forever,


P.S. I really hope my parents aren’t reading