L’Shanah tovah! Or, for those of you who are lucky enough to stuff your face with gingerbread cookies instead of mandarin beef on Dec. 25, happy Jewish New Year! Rosh Hashanah, one of the High Holidays, has struck again … one week earlier than I was expecting. (I blame this mistake on the fact that I no longer use a Chandler’s, which, unlike iCal, lets you know when important things are happening.)

If you didn’t pay attention in Hebrew school or only know of this holiday as the one you’re obliged to give employees the day off for, here’s the deal: In order to be inscribed back into the Book of Life (since I’m clearly a sinner), I need to spend the 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur repenting for everything I’ve done wrong.

Forgetting about Rosh has already put me in the hole with God, and I don’t want to die yet, considering I still haven’t developed a get-rich-quick scheme or enjoyed my final Unofficial. So, join me, as I attempt to apologize and dig myself out:

My body: I love cheese more than I love you. You should be my temple or whatever, but you’ll always come second to the glorious dairy that comes melted, fried, sliced, stuffed, stringed, or liquid out of a machine with a button, spout and washed out photograph of nachos attached. A lifetime on the hips will never feel as good as looking like an emaciated Alexander Wang prototype, but thanks for putting up with me and pushing some of that excess fat up to my chest area. I really appreciate it.

Silver Mine Subs: It’s not your fault that the entire street you’re on smells like beer, vomit and slut. The pre-meal stench is surprisingly unappetizing before chowing down on a sandwich, so my business has been taken elsewhere. Sorry, sub makers.

Gregory Hall Women’s Bathroom, First Floor: Every single time, it goes like this: I pee, I flush, I wash hands, I walk back and notice that toilet paper is stuffed in the bowl and refuses to disappear. This is more of your problem than mine, but I still regret the inadvertent nonflushing. I’ll drip dry or flush twice or just hold it next time because it’s never a successful bathroom trip inside your etched, barely locking doors.

Senior Year High School Crush Who I Facebook Stalk Like Once A Month: I’m sorry that every post you make elicits an eye roll or brazen comment like, “Ugh, you would do Teach For America” or “Oh, having fun exploring Death Valley? Ironic, that’s what you made me feel like when you dumped me right after our school dance. Death. A whole valley of it.” You got ugly in the past four years, anyway.

That last comment I just made: Crap! I’m not good at this stuff, God.

Everyone who signed up for Tumblr within the past four months: You’re not copying me, trying to make your layout better than mine, attempting to blog more often than I do or stealing my ideas. Just because I used it first doesn’t mean it’s mine. I think I’m in need of a few kindergarten crash courses on sharing when it comes to this one.

All Thetas who wear their letters in public: Hey, it’s not your fault you’re pretty, even though my dirty looks makes it seem like it is.

My roomates: I’m tougher to live with than you thought, right? Sorry I didn’t tell you about how I’m scared of mold. Or that I will do anything to avoid washing pots and pans by hand. Or about how I’m crazy allergic to bugs and will always be wandering around, itchy and complaining. Or that my marketing job with a record label means that our living room will be full of cardboard boxes, posters of emo bands, stacks of mousepads and every CD Danzig has ever made. It totally sucks that the UPS man pounds on the door two mornings a week to drop off music paraphernalia, scaring the bejeezus out of you while you’re sleeping. Please don’t move out.

Carlye is a senior in news-editorial journalism and may or may not be falling in love with Larry David. Sigh.