The Wedding and The ONLY Single Girl


It's bad enough seeing posts on Facebook of the ones you used to party with in high school popping out ugly babies and getting unhappily married, but forced to sit next to ones you despised talking about their ungodly boring lives is the worst. I walk into the reception hall wearing a silk backless jumper, which apparently is inappropriate for a small town mid-west wedding. I had to do it, I had to show off that I've lost weight since high school, not gained twenty pounds like the rest of these judgmental bitches. I could feel their eyes staring at me, making crude remarks about me and laughing their poised demeaning smiles. I knew they were jealous. I knew they hated me because I got out, because I was living my dream and they settle on being teachers dying two miles from where they were born. I hear one of the girls say “It must be sad that she's 27 and not married.” I was drunk at this time and have no filter. I look “Mandi” straight in the eye and say “Yeah...I decided not to get divorced.” That's when it began...

Mandi comes back with some stupid remark about how I had to bring my gay friend to a wedding and how pathetic I was to think that they would be fooled. At this point, I want to make out with her husband just because I knew I can, but I restrain myself long enough to take another shot. I come back with the lowest blow I could find. “At least I'm not fat.” Good Job, that must have hurt. Dammit. I can't lose to this bitch.

I know what is going to come out of her mouth next. “At least I'm not a whore,” she says, so stupid and unoriginal. One time, one time when I was eighteen at a house party I went streaking through a driveway drunk on a dare and this bitch still remembers it? She really does have no life. I just say the usual: “It really hurts knowing that an uptight prude, who's never been properly finger banged, called me a whore.” I stand up, take the last of my champagne, and go to the bar.

Unfortunately, the madness wasn't over, because my dumb mouth doesn't know when to shut up and I am getting progressively drunker. I slam down in the chair and now have to listen to Mandi's sob story about how she can't get pregnant and how Envitro hasn't been working. I roll my eyes, and the word vomit just spills out of my mouth. “Some people aren't meant to procreate.” She turns into a beast and lounges over the table at me. I have never seen a woman fly across a table like she did. I find it entertaining to say the least until I feel my hair being pulled out of my head and my chair on the ground.

Moral of the Story: Don't be a single sloppy drunken whore.