A minister could shit in a cereal bowl, shout epithets, and pretend to slap box my cousin. Then he could say "I now pronounce you man and wife, you may kiss the bride" and I'd be happy.
Afterwards, muthafuckas could mill around a darkened parking lot, with their cars parked in a circle with the headlights on, playing Schoolly D CDs on repeat and I'd be happy. Scratch that. I could give a fuck less what they do afterwards, because I gotta spend the rest of my life trying to support and raise my new family.
The shit I will never be happy about is this ulcer inducing, pain inflicting, horror show known as "planning the wedding" and all the bullshit that accompanies it.
I would gouge my eyes out with a fork and then sprinkle the empty sockets with tobasco if I could just move on the the marriage. This shit is the source of the majority of tension in my back and shoulders. And I'm in the middle of moving and job hunting. That's saying something.
Life is fucking hard enough, but putting together an expensive extravaganza to celebrate added responsibility and belt tightening just seems so fucking counterintuitive. We're at fucking war. The economy is in the dumper. And if you've got OnDemand and you're a fan of The Wire, shit is more depressing than ever.