Why Weddings aren’t Weally Worth it

I don’t understand weddings.

Or to be more specific, I don’t understand the importance of weddings. People spend thousands of dollars on a few hours. Can you stop and think about all the other things in the world that you could use that money for that would be so much more enjoyable, more useful, than a party?

Weddings are just a manifestation of one’s personal hubris. The prettier the wedding, the better we feel about ourselves. People who attend have to “wow” themselves to sleep that night because they’d never been to so expensive a shindig. Otherwise, the union was unsuccessful.

Who cares what kind of food is served, or which designer made your dress, or what color uplighting Sir Disk Jockey used? Why does it matter if the center pieces aren’t perfectly crafted in an ostentatious formation that’ll make your bitter Aunt Ellie jail-house jealous?

The concept of a wedding being the “most important day of your life” is borderline insane. How is wearing an uncomfortable outfit for five hours and being stared at by tons of people you barely know or talk to special?

“You only get married once” is no longer a plausible argument. 50 percent of marriages in America end in divorce. You might think you’re a special snowflake and are irrevocably in love, but people change over time. The chances you aren’t going to make it are pretty high, and now you’re out all this money that you could have had as back up just in case life happens.

All because you just had to have the sexiest wedding south of nowhere.

Band or DJ? Chicken or beef? Vera Wang or off-the-rack discount Davy’s Bridal? White or ivory table cloths? Four cameras or five? Sacrifice one virgin or two?

Who gives a fuck?

Why not keep the money for a down payment on a house, or an awesome honeymoon, or a saving’s bond for a rainy day?

I just think it’s disgusting that we spend a fortune to make a huge production of something people do all the time. Getting married is not some huge achievement. It’s a dated process that doesn’t really accumulate much envy on your guests’ parts. Can you imagine the amount of people you could feed with that money? How many lives you could improve with just a fraction of how much you just spent on food for people who eat pretty well all on their own?

A wedding is just a party. Nothing more. There is no reason to make it rain diamonds just to show that you’re better than everyone else. It doesn’t make you look happier. It just proves how desperate you really are for attention.

Trust me. People are not going to remember your “special night” for very long. You will be filed away in the deepest corner of their minds, right at the very bottom of the “Irrelevant Memories” cabinet. Even you will never look at those pictures, again.

So let it go.

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom it May Concern:

I have written many a post about depression and anxiety; I have explained it, described it, and defended it extensively in cyber space and real life. It seems, however, that despite all of this people still are unable to recognize it when they see it. This isn’t about me. This is about all of those around me that are subjected to labels by people who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.

The girl who stays up all night and sleeps all day isn’t just lazy. The guy who’s always on a screen of some kind, be it a computer, video games, or any other gadget that prevents social interaction, isn’t just addicted to technology. The people who keep to themselves for the most part do not think they’re better than others. Often, it is the exact opposite, and nothing is more terrifying than seeking help.

The girl who’s up all night is anxious. She can’t sleep, because all of the things that she thinks are wrong with her are running around in circles in her head. She is analyzing everything that she has ever done and is torturing herself over all of it, because she is simply incapable of moving on. Her mole hills are mountains she can’t climb, and when the sun comes up and she can see more than darkness, her mind finally lets her sleep.

The boy who is always staring at a screen is terrified of socializing. Crowds make him nervous, people make him anxious, and the real world is far more intimidating than the virtual reality he has created.

The girl who keeps to herself has low self-esteem. She compares herself to others and seems to always fall short. She looks down on herself and wonders why she couldn’t be as talented, smart, or beautiful as the people around her. It is easier for her to be alone, than to find herself in a position where her thoughts turn into self-deprecating beliefs that stick with her for life.

Just getting closer to God isn’t going to fix it. Being told that nothing is wrong with their lives, isn’t going to fix it. Telling someone that things are going to be okay isn’t going to fix it. Inserting our opinions and getting angry when the other person doesn’t get better isn’t going to fix it.

Telling people that it’s all in their head isn’t going fix it, because it is all in their head.

That’s kind of the point.

Sincerely,
The Guy Who Can’t Stand Your Type

Bet Your Bottom Dollar You’ll Lose the Blues in Chicago

I had the audacity to take a weekend trip to Chicago with some friends to see my brother. I anticipated a long drive, plenty of rest stops, and shit ton of money spent on gas.

What I did not anticipate was the fact that I would have a terrible fucking time, because I am legitimately stupid. I went to Chicago with two married couples, only to meet up with my brother, who is engaged.

Three couples, and me.

I should have known that things were going to take a very ugly turn when we were all getting ready. All the women in the apartment were busy putting on a shit ton of make-up, primping and bedazzling like they were on an America’s Next Top Model challenge.

It was like watching an ant farm. Three girls scurrying about, taking out curlers and liners and other objects I didn’t recognize. I truly didn’t understand why they were doing this. It didn’t change very much. They didn’t look any different, and all of them were already beautiful.

And as we took our first class-trip into the heart of Chitown for eighth class seats at Lolapalooza, my aro-ace anxiety hit me like a rusted freight train off its rails. They were all walking in pairs; Each guy had his arm around his girl, and I was just walking in the back all by myself. I was now officially intruding on couple’s night, and it fucking sucked. It was a mild representation of what my life is actually like: people pairing up around me, and me taking my phone for a walk.

What’s even worse, it was also a reminder that one day I might have to be like them, because I have to get married. I’m going to be stuck doing things like that, because he won’t have a clue what he fucking married.

It wasn’t resentment toward them. I was getting extremely anxious, and I couldn’t hide that with anything other than anger. I wasn’t mad that they had left me on my own. I love being on my own. I just couldn’t mask the anxiety any other way, and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. We turned it into a joke and went on about our business.

But then we got home, and every girl was in her guy’s arms, and I was sitting on my own, again. It’s not like I can be upset with them over it; They’re married and happy. There’s no reason they should disguise their love because I am disgustingly abnormal. The only thing keeping me grounded was my friend back on the East Coast, who was texting me the entire time. Even after everyone had slept, she was miraculously not tired, and we stayed up until 4 a.m. talking and messing around.

But she had to go to bed, eventually. She had work the next day. I was alone in the dark, now. I couldn’t ignore the anxiety anymore, and since there were people all over the apartment sleeping, I had to sit in the bathroom with the light off, music in my ears and trying not to cry.

How disgustingly pathetic is that?

I had zero reason to react that way. I had a panic attack because I was walking by myself among people who clearly just wanted to be with each other. So what? Why am I so uncomfortable being so ridiculously different, even after all these years? I am twentyfuckingfive.

People shouldn’t have to edit their lives just because I’m a mess. They can’t act differently around me simply because I might fall apart.

But I don’t think I can take this, anymore.

Never, ever again. Single friends only.

Time to get the hell out of Chicago.

Fuck off, Sinatra.