marsh mellow

up late again, reading reviews of marshmallows. oh boy.

i bear down like i want the horse to get there, yesterday. no one gives a fuck about your table numbers.

truth talk. that’s my wedding theme: no one gives a fuck. they just want free food. and favors, that’s a thing. “thanks for being my friend!” i sort of thought renting 12 cabins was a favor. “they’ll be so glad!”

you think you can do it differently, but that’s just a single pearlescent bead on your vintage heirloom bracelet of majestic delusions.

the centerpiece titanic blue heart charm, bought from pandora’s box of thoughtlessly named stores, is the idea that you yourself don’t care about all this. “ha ha!” (drinks tap water from a pyrex measuring cup) “i don’t care about such frippery!”

“it’s a celebration of our love.”

the fuck it is. i love him every day, anyway. the cat bears witness. a wedding is a poorly designed delivery system. more parts there are, more parts can break.

elopement disappoints others, and people say they have regrets, but those are seafaring tales. there’s no way to go through the fire without regret. i’ll tell my child to elope her heart out. o child, shut the computer. i wasted my summer looking at sticks and jars, and making guest lists that turned out just to be camouflaged magic eye pictures of disappointment.