I've been mentally preparing myself for Phil's upcoming nuptials, because I am about 99% sure that come 3am I'll be sloppy, drunken, crying mess. I do not win at weddings.
Most likely I'll misquote my favorite authors while trying to explain my emotional plight to someone who will feel obligated to listen because they care about me just enough to put up with snivelly, yelling, abusive Rassles since I gave them advice that one time when they needed it. But they won't get it, they'll put words into my mouth and I'll snap at their lack of understanding because let's face it - I am a misunderstood individual, destined to wander the path of sage hermitage and loneliness and woe. I'll probably shoulder buckets of woe all over the fucking place, and when I spill it all I can just refill from the fuckloads of woeterfalls leaking out of craggy Woe Mountain that totally creates its' own woether, which, of course, is emo for "weather."
Woether, by the way, is 96 degrees and windless, relentless humidity and fat red bug bites. Seriously, for awhile there going outside was like wading through steaming salsa with shinfuls of papercuts. Me and CrazyLiz cranked up the dusty A/C unit, turned off all the lights, closed the blinds and watched three seasons of Buffy until the wind came back home.
I am so glad I don't live in fucking Florida.
Yesterday the wind returned, so I can breathe again. Phil and Rachel (fiancee) came over for porch drinking, and I warned them about dreading the wedding, and Phil laughed and punched my knee and called me a sally.
"Wait, I don't get it," Rachel asked, all concerned.
"Rossi gets drunk and feels sorry for herself at weddings," Phil laughed.
"Hey, I'm allowed wallowing."
"Why don't you just make your date take care of it?"
"Not bringing one. So I guess it's up to CrazyLiz to comfort me," I grinned evilly and smiled at her.
"Oh, fucking great," she sighed, and rolled her eyes.
"Aren't you bringing Adam or something?"
"Nah," I shook my head. "It's too complicated. I'd have to take him to the bachelor party, the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, Sunday Funday, camping - this is a big event, man. Any guy I brought would have to be dedicated to me for five days. Even Adam wouldn't do that."
"He's too clean," I shrugged. "His OCD would kick in, he'd need to wash his hands all the time--"
"He'd get his suit dirty," Phil laughed and chugged his High Life.
"Exactly. Plus, you told me, and I quote, 'if you're not bringing some dude you plan on sleeping with, I'd rather have you just bring Gyna.'"
"Wait - I said that?"
Rachel defended me. "I definitely remember you saying that."
"Wow, I am awesome. But now I feel bad, 'cause I like Adam. You know I just want you to get laid."
"And if you're not getting laid, then I might as well surround myself with hot chicks with big tits."
Rachel closed her eyes and scoffed. "Do I know Adam?"
"I don't think so."
"How do you know Adam?"
"He's a friend. We're like each other's unofficial dates to everything."
"And that's it?"
"You know me. Plus, he can talk to anyone and he looks good in a suit."
"He's like Moby with emo glasses," CrazyLiz explains. "But like--"
"Like with a little bit of that guy from Crank," Phil adds. "And he always wears a long black leather coat, with a suit and like, combat boots."
I laugh. "He looks like he belongs in the Matrix. Like if Moby and Jason Statham merged in the Matrix. And were very clean and awkwardly quick-witted."
"That is perfect."
"So," Rachel smirks, "why isn't he coming to the wedding?"
"Could you imagine Matrix Moby Statham camping? No. I don't really need a date anyway."
"Except to deal with the fucking crying," CrazyLiz laughed. She was being facetious. She cries way more than me. Because of the Crazy.
"Hey, I got an idea," Phil lit up, excited.
"How about you just don't fucking cry at my wedding, you pussy."