I sneer at everyone who appears in the Engagement Announcements section of our crappy paper, as if it's some kind of personal affront. It's always either the hopeless romantic who would have married a ficus tree if it were willing, or it's the one who causes you to stop and shriek, "SHE graduated?!", the one who was smoking Marlboro Reds on the swingset in fourth grade. And they're always standing next to some industry standard G-funk, wearing a thick titanium chain under a t-shirt that doubles as a tablecloth, and a dark, omnipresent penumbra on his upper lip. I'm tempted to grab some microwave popcorn and turn on Divorce Court, expecting them to materialize any moment with three bratty "whoopsies" in tow.
It's Christmas Eve, and I'm sniping at happily married couples with bitter, semantic potshots. This is what my life has been reduced to.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Seriously.