We all do things we aren't proud of, but not all of us have the integrity to apologize. Here, Kassia cleanses her soul and makes amends to those she wronged this week.

To the blind man I ran into on the sidewalk

I'm really sorry. There's no good way to excuse hitting a blind man with your body. But I'm going to try. It was raining, I had my big furry hood on which blocked my peripheral vision and I was on a mission to get to shelter. When it was already too late, I saw what I now realize was your tappy cane in front of me. Seconds later I felt the full body check of a blind man against me. What I'm trying to say, in so many words, is that I was quite literally blind sided. But, look, I'm not here to play a game of he-said-she-said. I'm here to apologize. Even though it's anyone's guess what the right of way rules are on this one. Is there special dispensation for the blind? Probably. Does it change things if it's raining and I'm in a really cute not-good-for-rain coat? Probably not. But regardless, I thought I'd be the bigger person and apologize. And I can do that without hesitation. Because there's like zero chance you are reading this right now.

My Apologies to the Blind Man I Ran Into and Others - Image 1

To everyone in the bar

I'm sorry I thought it was a cute idea to hand out pictures of naked women to you on Saturday night. I can explain. When I was in Vegas a few months ago, I thought I would collect those prostitute calling cards as a fun little game. I had a ton of these left in my purse Saturday night, because there's no great way to display a collection of prostitute calling cards. (I should check Etsy for a reclaimed frame that might work.) Anyway, after a thousand beers, I thought it would be fun to hand said prostitute calling cards out to friends and strangers. And this was really crass of me. Because those girls live in Vegas and we are in New York and a long distance prostitute is about as helpful as a stripper pole in a nunnery.

My Apologies to the Blind Man I Ran Into and Others - Image 1

To 3:00 p.m. on Sunday

I'm sorry I wasn't ready for you when you arrived. I had somewhere to be at 3:00 p.m. and getting there felt impossible. Sure, it was the first day of daylight savings and the day after I rang in my birthday giving out prostitute cards to strangers. But that's really no excuse. Any way you slice it, 3:00 p.m. is the universal sweet spot on the clock. Mothers and meth addicts alike are up and doing their thing at 3:00 p.m. And yet, I wasn't. To me, 3:00 p.m. felt more like Why-Me-Oh-God-It-Hurts-Make-It-StopÂ… p.m. I truly couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that children were swinging on swing sets while I was so incapacitated that I decided to "sleep through" an actionable wave of nausea. I'm sorry I let you down, 3:00 p.m. You expect each of us to show up, and I didn't.

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To everyone I text or e-mail

I'm sorry that ever since I figured out how to use Caps Lock on my iPhone, my messages have all been much more emphatic. I'm not generally an emphasis-added type of girl. But for some reason when I get that little rectangle of plastic in my hands, my tone goes from "normal gal livin' a normal life" to "HERE'S A NEW TEXT COMIN' AT YOU LIVE FROM TEXT CRUNCHERS STADIUM THIS SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!" It's not like I feel that strongly about the fact that it's "NO PROBLEM" that you're running ten minutes late. Actually, I hate the fact that you're running ten minutes late. I also don't "LOVE" your out-of-office message. It's fine, I guess, but if I LOVED something like that, then what would that mean about me? And the fact that we're going to Grey Dog again isn't GREAT. It's boring. I always feel obligated to get the Country Salad with Tofu instead of the quesadillas and I'm tired of living that lie. BUT I CAN'T HELP MYSELF.

My Apologies to the Blind Man I Ran Into and Others - Image 1

To the casting director who asked to see my midriff

I'm sorry that what you saw wasn't straight from the pages of Fitness Magazine. I wasn't ready for that when you asked me to take my tank off and stand in my sports bra. I'm very pale and if I'm being honest, my middle is not my best area. It's sort of the Broadway between 23rd and 34th of my body. It's fine if you need to get a cheap bag, but you're not going to bring a date there for dinner. But in body terms. You ended up taking a picture of the flesh equivalent of one of those street scarves that are passable in a pinch ("The pink one's not that bad"), but you know you could get a much nicer one if you just went up to Bloomingdales. On an unrelated note, I haven't heard back that I got the job. Is there some sort of mix up?


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