If I published a wedding mag, I would call it either Big Fat Bride or Fucking Crazy. The simple fact is that weddings bring out the worst in everyone. Welcome to disordered eating (not because you’re trying to lose weight, but because you simply feel sick all the time), the worst fights of your relationship, and every decision you make being scrutinized by your mother’s neighbor’s manicurist.
Today while accomplishing some tedious footwear errand,Â I got to talking with the shop girl while someone was packing my stuff up attractively. She’s getting married soon, and we were comiserating about the last minute details. She mentioned she wasn’t even on speaking terms with her fiancee.
“Ha,” I said, “that’s what no one ever tells you when you get engaged. Did the fight go like this by any chance? ‘You’re an idiot, what was I thinking, I hate you, Oh God, I can’t wait til we’re married so we can get divorced!”
“YES, so I’m not the only one! Don’t forget ‘What do you mean you told your mother THAT?’ and ‘I wish we were both dead!'”
So there you have it, ladies and gents. Premarital rage. Mike Tyson-style. Perhaps Mike said it best when he said “I’ll fuck you til you love me, bitch!” Ah, just the thing to put on the programs! I do love an epigraph.
In short: go. to. Vegas.