every white wedding is exactly the same. kitschy mason-jar centerpiece displays, thirsty flowers in ornate vases, lace-trimmed tablecloths and country-pop songs blaring from the stereo.
welcome to cookie-cutter suburbia, copy-and-pasted from half-a-hundred Pinterest boards depicting indistinguishable scenes of smiles stretched paper-thin on spray-tan painted faces.
my tongue is a skipping record, regurgitating the same vapid conversation ad nauseam, stutter-stepping through an indistinct refrain: “how’s school going for you?” “oh, really? an English degree?” “and just what do you plan to do with that, exactly?”
bourgeois blather follows flagrant patterns. drunk uncles splutter racist rants at this posh reception, but i’ve been told— no matter what—don’t stir the ***. avoid any and all discussion of the current president’s child concentration camps, the war on immigrants, or the escalating tensions with Venezuela and Iran.
i am sick to my stomach of self-indulgence: watered-down punch bowls, patriarchal vows to god and government. “i do,” an endless ******* feedback loop droning tediously until my ears bleed. sing the same hymns over acoustic guitars while vocals peak in microphones. reread 1 Corinthians 13:13, beg your deity to bless the BBQ pork and beans.
dance along to the Cupid Shuffle and be sure to always follow the rules: birth, youth, college, marriage, work, death. consume.