Saturday, March 31, 2007

The First Two Paragraphs of a Personal Wedding Story Found On a Website that Collects Such Things

I never thought I’d get married until I met Drake. I was the child of divorced parents, and both sets of grandparents were divorced on top of that. The idea of a happy marriage was alien to me, a stylized fantasy seen on a commercial for frozen turkey, not something that could actually happen in real life. In college I would protest adamantly to my girlfriends that I was anti-marriage; I told them I intended to have kids on my own, possibly adopted ones from foreign countries, and that I would raise them as a hip and sexy single mom. As I entered my thirties, and watched as one by one my friends each entered into conjugal unions, my anti-marital standpoint only hardened, becoming something akin to the steel that once held up the World Trade Center.

Then, my own personal 9/11 hit. I was standing in line at Starbucks, waiting impatiently in classic New York style for my low-fat "black kiss" mochacino, when I saw him. Drake. He was sitting at one of the tables, eating a "lump of death" and drinking what looked like Organic Ginger tea from Traditional Medicinals, though it was difficult to tell from where I was standing, a few hundred feet away. His hair was that perfect mixture of well-styled yet explicitly windswept, and I could tell just by glancing at him that his fingernails and toenails would be clean and manly and hard. He looked up and caught me squinting at him and I felt like my stomach was about to bust a nut. Little did I know in that first awkward moment that Drake and I would be standing on the altar six months later, squeezing a diamond ring onto my pale, fat, trembling, bloody fist. If I'd'a known, I'd'about douched in my pants!


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