My wedding and a poetic bitchfest

My bad mood runneth over. Luckily, I'm totally distracted from life in its entirety by Perfect Fifths, which is blowing my mind with every page, inducing orgasm after wordplay-filled orgasm. I'm on page 187. About a sixth of it left. I could, very easily, implode.

Anyway, I don't really want to get into anything of depth or substance today, so I shall proceed to describe my fictional wedding to you in great detail.

The ceremony will be in late summer/early fall, like September or October. The color scheme will clash terribly with my church's burgundy interior, so I'll count on a) my church being redone before the year 2014, b) my fiance having a pretty church that's equally important to him, or c) my lawyer sister being bitchy enough for us to block off a section of the National Park from dogwalkers and marathoners, so we can get married under the changing leaves. My pastor will marry us, my daddy will walk me down the aisle to either the traditional music or something special between me and my fiance, and my siblings' children (they don't exist yet, mind) will be assorted flower girls and ring bearers. If it's at all possible to convince him, the rings will be thin, white gold, with "I love thee" inscribed on the inside, like Romeo and Juliet, hold the tragedy.

I can probably be talked into making concessions for the man I fall in love with if he doesn't happen to have two brothers and one sister, but, you know, it'd really come in handy if he did. As far as the bridal party goes. The boys, consisting of his two brothers-- let's call them babynames.com's top boy names for 2001, Jacob and Michael--his best friend, "Matthew" and my brother, Tad, will be dressed in classic black, with ties to match the dresses of their corresponding bridesmaids. The brother closer to his age-- I suppose he can be Michael-- will be the best man. The bridesmaids will be my sisters, Cori and Kelly, his sister, "Emily," and my best friend, Jess. The role of maid of honor will be played by Kelly. The bridesmaid dresses will be short, falling below the knee, with low halter tops, in varrying coralish shades. Kelly's will be darkest, an almost-red, Cori's a lighter version of it, Emily's a pinkish, and Jess's peachy. They'll wear about three-inch thick, small pearl bracelets on their right wrists, and traditional pearl earrings. Bouquets will be beautiful white, tied with simple ribbons in the color of each dress. The two-inch heeled, peep-toed shoes will be, obviously, dyed to match.

My dress is (the future tense was reminding me of French II and was frankly getting exhausting) pure, perfect white. The neckline is the same as the bridesmaids' dresses, but lower and more dramatic. The skirt is long and wide and over the top, caught in sporatic places with single pearls. The train is long. As is the plain white veil. Mounds of huge, costume jewelry pearls fall around my neck. My hair is done and down, curly, like a perfected, professional version of its natural waves. Makeup looks like me.

In attendance are Lauren, Seers and Leah, the college best friends I haven't met yet, various other close childhood/teenage-year friends, the fiveawesomegirls, my close extended family, a few special others, and then, obviously, my husband's loved ones. The reception will be huge, involving everyone who didn't make the close-and-personal cut, and will take place in the most beautiful ballroom I've ever seen, which I haven't yet seen. Twinkle lights everywhere, a string quartet, musical performances by our talented friends, and a band that knows better than to play even a note of "The Chicken Dance," "Who Let the Dogs Out" or anything by Prince. Dinner will be something nice that complements the never-ending, unexplained bowls of chips and guacamole on every table. For desert, the materials required for the assembly of smores. 

When we finally tire of the festivities, my husband and I jet off to Paris. We spend the days skipping around the city, quoting Le Petit Prince and eating baguettes. We sit in Montmartre, the beauty stunning us into silence, listening to starving musicians play and sing. At some point I/we utilize the pretty white clawfooted bathtub next to the balcony with the pretty white curtains swaying in the breeze, and we fall into pretty white sleep together, forever and ever and ever and ever amen.

But, you know... that's just a blueprint. 

Part of the reason sleep seems so romantic to me right now-- besides the idea of lying shamelessly next to one other person your whole life, comforted and trusting that they'll always be there when you wake up-- is because I haven't been, like, sleeping lately. I try to relax, but my heart just beats faster and faster and I feel more and more restless. In my inability to relax last night, I thought about forever-and-ever-amen love, and ended up writing a poem for my never-ever-again love. It's very irresponsible and immature for me to post this in my blog. So... enjoy.

I hope that you fall down a flight of stairs.
Not hard enough to die, but bad enough to tear
Some of the ugly ass clothes that you always wear
Or a muscle or two, though on you, those are rare.

I hope, in your fall, that you kick your own head
With those disgusting ass shoes (Who makes those things, Ked?)
And inside your tumbling mind, you'll hear the things I once said
In the private diary I showed you, that you rarely read.

Here's a recap, in case you've decided to care:
I wasted so much of me on you, it's not even fair.
You know the song "Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair"?
If I scrubbed hard enough, I'd be a spokesgirl for Nair.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
And you've scorned me enough times, you should be warned.
I'm hitting myself-- I can't believe that I mourned
[Lyric deleted for explicit content, but trust me, it's hardcore]

I bet you didn't catch that Shakespeare allusion
Scratching your ugly ass head in utter confusion
Gasp! Oh em gee, look at the knowledge you're losing
Dropping out of college in the first semester to do nothing but play World of Warcraft all day.

Sexy: Jessica and Marcus. Everything they've ever said and done.

Unsexy: Raggedy beards on nearly everyone but Marcus Flutie. Although I was a really, really big fan of Alex (nerimon)'s scruffy facial hair thing a while back.

Weight: 139

Chipotle burritos this year: 11

Subscribers: 15,165

Days left of high school: 28

Bye, guys! See you tomorrow. <3