Tuesday, February 09, 2010

The Trouble with Letting Them Think They Get to Have an Opinion...

I know, I know. I fucking SUCK. How long has it been since I posted? At least 6 or 7 days, and then maybe a week before that. I'd go check, but I simply DO NOT HAVE THE TIME.

You know that feeling you get when you have a bunch of marbles in your head because that's what your brain has been reduced to by the violent force that is wedding reception menu options and rehearsal dinner deposits and the chore of compiling a gigantic guest list, and your skull is made put of tin foil and Elmer's glue and then someone spins you around so fast that your marbles are weightlessly spinning inside of your head and your testicles are sucked up inside and ticking your gall bladder, and then that same someone hits you in the face with a crowbar made out of titanium magnets, and not only do your marble brains shatter upon impact, but also your tin foil skull gets sucked out out of your gushing facial wound and ends up shrink wrapped to the magnetic crowbar, except you're so high on ecstasy and hydrocodone and jet lag that you think it's all really fucking awesome and special and romantic and fun and exciting and the BEST EVAH?

That's what's been going on in my head for the last seven days. Wow. A whole week since my lobsta got down on his knee and asked me to be Mrs. Gray forever and ever until either one of us dies or until Tom Hanks shows up and rips off his shirt and flutters his eyelashes at me. Or, now that I think about it, until Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie and Kelly Kelly all jump naked into a vat of liquefied peanut butter cups and even slightly IMPLY that perhaps they would be open to the possibility of Gray getting within 30 yards of the them.

In other words, forever and ever until Gray dies and goes to be with the God he knows is out there somewhere and gets to see his dad in heaven, and all of his deceased ancestors are there, and he gets to make jokes about Picasso with Leonardo DaVinci, and he stumbles across the final shreds of his dignity which died when I started having to wipe his ass for him at the age of 95.

And then I'll die 25 years later during rough sex with my teenage Colombian man-slave on in the cabana by my vodka-filled lap pool on my private island in South Carolina, and I'll end up in the great black nothing that is what I believe happens when you die, and my body will rot and my teenage Colombian man-slave will go into therapy and become a lesbian, and eventually my molecular energy will be absorbed into a leaf of grass which will be ingested by a zebra, and I'll live my dream of roaming the plains of the Serengeti and I will bask in the pleasure that is the simple life of a tricked out pony. At least until I take a giant shit and my molecularly-charged blade of grass ends up back where it came from.

When I am nothing but a pile of shit, the circle will be complete.

So to sum it all up:

me + wedding plans + back to work after 6 business days on vacation + pricing custom favors and business cards to hand out when I go to BlogHer which is happening a mere 19 days after my wedding + studying for my first humanities exam + hosting a class discussion group on Friday night + DID I MENTION I'M PLANNING A WEDDING IN 158 DAYS?! + what the hell is that thing growing in the toilet? It looks a lot like the thing growing in the fridge... = Really fucking busy and excited and brain-swirly and jet-lagged and in denial that I need to stop eating like a human and start eating like a zebra.

And then Gray says this to me and makes it all worth while:

Gray: "Hey hon?"
Me: "Yes?"
Gray: "Can I walk down the aisle to The Undertaker's entrance music?"
Me: "You don't get to walk down the aisle. Thank god."

Because really? He REALLY thought this had a shot at this?

He has no idea what he's getting himself into. Instead of registering for gifts, we're asking that you all chip in to buy a straight jacked and some Xanax for the groom.