February 12, 2016


The term should be "going bridal" not postal. I'm on the verge, folks. It's not funny anymore.

We want a 15 minute ceremony and a bonfire party afterward. It's not Westminster Abbey. A few lights and something pretty at the alter. That's it. 

So we find an outdoor venue, which only required the aligning of three planets and the placental blood of a virgin East African rhino. No big. 

Now we need it somewhat decorated. Enter the Decor Bandit. This bitch charges a $500 flat rate. 

Okay. $500 to have it all done. Fine. What's another wedding related sexual assault in the grand scheme of things? 

Then this happens.

She asks me, Do you have lights or will you need to rent them from me? 

Um, we're gonna need lights. 

the sound of rapid scratching of her pencil

She asks me, Do you want me to hang them?

pressure in my head increasing

In my head, Naw, just throw 'em down on the ground. They really don't even need to be plugged in. Are you kidding me? But I say, Yes. Yes, we need you to hang the lights.

the sound of rapid scratching of her pencil

Will you need the ceremony area decorated?

She's dead serious, not a hint of a snicker in her voice. I'm dying inside.

In my head, You mean the blank tree trunk we will be standing in front of? Yeah, we'd like it to be, ya know, not blank. Fucking asshole. But I say, Can we just make an appointment to meet so I can strangle you with a string of lights show you what I'm talking about? 

This is how every aspect of this whole planning a wedding has gone. I haven't even begun to shop for a dress. God help me and anyone I come in contact with during that time.

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