There once lived a girl
With a head full of curls,
Once nice, naive, and neat,
Turned out to be a compulsive cheat.
In love she bravely fell,
But never cured was her curse from hell.
Five marriages ended in divorce,
Still she felt no remorse.
Proudly she marched on,
With her whiskey and her bong.
On the eve of her 40th year,
Singlehood she could no longer bear.
A ring and dress she bought,
Along with flowers and silicone breasts,
To commence a marriage with herself.
Men and women she still screwed,
But all the same her marriage thrived.
Hence the moral of this glorious tale is that the one and only soul mate a woman will ever find is herself because, let’s be honest, no previously discovered living organism on planet earth can tame any member of the magnificent female species.
This is why you don’t write poems at 5.59 am in the morning.
You know, the longer I think of it the more convinced I am that I’m going to turn into Amy Dunne when I’m 35. Either that or I’m going to marry an Amy Dunne and get Amy Dunne’d. These are Gone Girl references to illustrate the bleakness of my future. If you’ve seen the movie or read the book, you’ll know that I’m likening myself to a slightly insane, marvelously brilliant, textbook psychopath who faked her own death just to frame her slimy husband because he cheated on her with a much hotter bimbo with big fucking tits (tbh I think Rosamund Pike is a lot more attractive than that other chick, but eh I don’t think with ma dick). If you haven’t read the book…well, get your act together, dude.
Anyway, I don’t think I’m intelligent or diabolical enough to actually pull off a fake murder and then pull off a real murder to get out of the fake murder. I can probably just burn the house down but I don’t really want to sleep in the park. I guess that’s why I worship her so much, because she actually has the talent and the craziness to pull off something many women in crumbling relationships probably dream of doing. And while I don’t have any homicidal tendencies yet, it is fascinating to think about all the different ways marriage can fuck two people up. Sometimes I’d like to be fucked up by marriage just to see how it will transform this demure little maiden into a vindictive, manipulative, psychotic goddess. We need more women in literature like Amy Dunne.
I’m not anti-marriage. I mean, sometimes I do see it as a part of my life…after 40 or 50. Alright, maybe 35, just as long as it stays the fuck away from the best years of my life. It just seems so bloody boring to me. It’s like, you’re both work from 9-6, then you get home for dinner and you talk about what happened at work. Then you probably watch TV for an hour or something. Then you go do your adult thing and then go to sleep and boom the day’s over. For the longest time, I thought that’s just what happens on TV. But then I saw my parents doing it. And then my mom with my stepdad. Of course that doesn’t apply to everyone, and I’m glad there are a lot of happily married chaps out there (whoop congrats), but eh I just don’t care for that shit. And that’s probably because I’m just gonna marry myself at 40.
So Facebook informed me today that Ashley Tisdale got married. Of course, that’s none of my fucking business, but hearing that news just made me feel so damn old. It’s been, what, eight years since High School Musical aired? Yet part of me still sees Ashley as Sharpay, and it’s crazy to think that she’s like 29 now. Anyhow, seeing her gorgeous and very expensive-looking wedding photos reminded me what a speed demon time is and that before long my friends and I too will be walking down the aisle of doom. Hell, a few of my closest friends have already set their wedding venues and decided on the guest lists. If it were up to me, I’d pick some shady ass motel in Vegas. Just to fuck with my parents.
Personally, I’m very conflicted about this subject. Part of me cringes at the thought of being tied down to one person for an indefinite number of years, primarily because I’m weak at commitment and particularly susceptible to temptations. Also, if my beloved happens to be a chronic snorer I don’t think I’ll have a choice but to divorce him. Sometimes love just isn’t enough. Yet another, smaller part of me can’t help but wonder what it would be like to wear such an uncomfortable and overpriced dress, have a hundred eyes raining down on you while you attempt not to trip and fall during that ridiculously long walk to your betrothed, and stand for an hour in 5in heels while some random old man monotonously regurgitates a bunch of vows you’re never gonna keep anyway. Oh, the power of love. It’d be a hell of an experience to have.
For the most part marriage scares me. It might be because it didn’t work out between my parents, or many of my friends’ parents, for that matter. I think the magic about marriage is all in the build up, in the uncertainty. Just like with everything else in a relationship – the kiss, the first date, etc. When is he gonna ask me? Is she gonna say yes? How am I supposed to propose? You’re always looking forward to that big event, and all that exhilaration and optimism vanish as soon as it ends. The problem about marriage might be that it’s too perfect. Too beautiful and romantic. You spend so much money and energy to make it the greatest day of your life that you forget you have another 40 years to follow that perfect day. And what if you can never recapture that dizzying high again? What if love can’t grow stronger and life can’t get better than that one night? Getting married is like taking molly or ecstasy or some shit: the buildup and the peak are orgasmic, then you crash hard and it’s the lowest low you’ll ever feel in your life.
Perhaps I’m just too young and immature to understand true love or commitment or whatever, but the way my 19 year old mind sees it, marriage ruins rather than strengthens feelings. Compelling it may be. Lasting? Not so much.