Updates
Well, here we both are... it's both of we :)
Ei you guys. The wedding’s postponed for a year. Marlon’s Mom died last month :( According to tradition you’re not supposed to get married for a whole year if a member of your family dies because you’re in mourning. So in the mean time, we’re doing the whole civil ceremony with a Judge as a solemnizing officer early next year instead.
I have to admit, when told me he wanted to marry me, I thought at first he was possessed by a demon and unable to control his tongue. He assured me he wasn’t channeling the spirit of some lunatic Don Juan and that there was no need of an exorcist, and that he loves me. Is that crazy or what? I mean jeez, here's this great looking guy, only a few years older than me, with no visible mutations, a very good lawyer who could just about have any stacked little twinkie he wanted, and the only one he wants is me. Now obviously he's brain-damaged, but you wouldn't know it to talk to him, he could pass for normal! He says he loves that I've got a brain. (Evidently he doesn't know how diseased it is.) He believes that contrary to popular belief, I don’t sport an invisible universal product code on my forehead with the numerals 666 rendered in bar code, he says that I have everything he’s always looked for in a woman albeit in excess, and he's even excited about my body -- or if he isn't excited, then he's the first guy in history who could fake an erection. (He’s gotten me actually beginning to consider the possibility that my body is not as bad as I always thought. That is, if you consider boniness to be the sine qua non of feminine beauty.) He’s not a perfect man. I mean he is a man after all. Hairy, neanderthalic, perpetually half-crazed from excessive levels of testosterone, plagued by racial memories of the lost glory of mammoth-hunting expeditions, he’s just like all of them: Me Tarzan, you Jane, this chastity belt. Heheh.
No, he’s not a perfect man. But he’s the perfect man for me.
Of course I would much rather do the whole white veil and flower girls thing, two hearts joined as one in holy matrimony, great pelting showers of rice and so forth. I mean if you’re going to have your fairy godmother turn a pumpkin into stylish equipage to transport you to the royal ball, you want her to dispense with the mice-into-horses bit and use her magic wand to whack the pumpkin into a new BMW, which is cooler than any coach drawn by enchanted vermin. But I guess I can wait a year. I have everything I need right here already anyways.
Ei you guys. The wedding’s postponed for a year. Marlon’s Mom died last month :( According to tradition you’re not supposed to get married for a whole year if a member of your family dies because you’re in mourning. So in the mean time, we’re doing the whole civil ceremony with a Judge as a solemnizing officer early next year instead.
I have to admit, when told me he wanted to marry me, I thought at first he was possessed by a demon and unable to control his tongue. He assured me he wasn’t channeling the spirit of some lunatic Don Juan and that there was no need of an exorcist, and that he loves me. Is that crazy or what? I mean jeez, here's this great looking guy, only a few years older than me, with no visible mutations, a very good lawyer who could just about have any stacked little twinkie he wanted, and the only one he wants is me. Now obviously he's brain-damaged, but you wouldn't know it to talk to him, he could pass for normal! He says he loves that I've got a brain. (Evidently he doesn't know how diseased it is.) He believes that contrary to popular belief, I don’t sport an invisible universal product code on my forehead with the numerals 666 rendered in bar code, he says that I have everything he’s always looked for in a woman albeit in excess, and he's even excited about my body -- or if he isn't excited, then he's the first guy in history who could fake an erection. (He’s gotten me actually beginning to consider the possibility that my body is not as bad as I always thought. That is, if you consider boniness to be the sine qua non of feminine beauty.) He’s not a perfect man. I mean he is a man after all. Hairy, neanderthalic, perpetually half-crazed from excessive levels of testosterone, plagued by racial memories of the lost glory of mammoth-hunting expeditions, he’s just like all of them: Me Tarzan, you Jane, this chastity belt. Heheh.
No, he’s not a perfect man. But he’s the perfect man for me.
Of course I would much rather do the whole white veil and flower girls thing, two hearts joined as one in holy matrimony, great pelting showers of rice and so forth. I mean if you’re going to have your fairy godmother turn a pumpkin into stylish equipage to transport you to the royal ball, you want her to dispense with the mice-into-horses bit and use her magic wand to whack the pumpkin into a new BMW, which is cooler than any coach drawn by enchanted vermin. But I guess I can wait a year. I have everything I need right here already anyways.
posted by leslie @ 6:50 AM
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