But here’s the thing, and let me get this out before all you Love Nazis start measuring me for a striped jumpsuit: I have a perfectly valid reason. Two reasons in fact.

The first is that when I was nineteen I was supposed to marry this Guy – you know, the Guy. The one who makes you promises and takes you to the movies and forces you to read William Faulkner for the first time and on whose cock you’re pretty sure the sun rises and sets (such was the rigorous, aerobic, incessant, highly pleasurable nature of your sex life), asks you to marry him on the most romantic train ride through Europe ever in the history of locomotion – and then disappears two days before the nuptials and now he’s on some soap opera someplace, the son of a bitch. Every time you see him on the cover of one of those goddamn magazines you want to take a shit on and then burn every copy in the store. Motherfucker.

The second reason…


You won’t believe this.

Every time I hear “The Wedding March”, I lose consciousness.

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