Some might describe them as a molten pool of chocolate. Others might describe them as a freshly-brewed cup of coffee. More might describe them as the shade of a freshly-made pan of gooey brownies. Me? I like to describe them as a steaming pile of shit. I mean, nothing's particularly wrong with his eyes. They are a perfectly normal pair of eyes. No glasses, or contacts, or anything. Almost too perfect. But that’s exactly why I hate them.
Maybe, I would like them more if it wasn’t for the millions of camera flashes going off every minute. It's annoying. I already know I'll remember this day for the rest of my life. Pictures are not necessary. They should take in their surroundings instead; this is the fanciest event many of the guests ever attended. (Myself included.)
Or perhaps, it's the flowers. Of course, the one flower I hate are the ones covering every inch of this building. Orchids. (I. Hate. Orchids.) I can hold down five shots of vodka no problem, but give me a bouquet of orchids, and I will frantically offer to pay for dry cleaning to rid your clothes of my vomit because "manners".
I distract myself by gazing down the length of my husband. Damn, he is tall. (And well-built.) I don’t mind this part of the deal, at all. I wasn’t promised anything, but that does not mean I won't do my best to get some benefits for myself. He comes with a hefty package, and I'm not past enjoying the advantages it provides.
Finishing my examination, I glance over at the priest. The sweat on his upper lip makes me throw up a little in my mouth, so I quickly look away. He still drones on and on about stuff I don’t give a rat’s ass about.
For better, for worse... Yes, until you get old, and ugly, and have wrinkles, and lose those abs...
For richer, for poorer... This is only happening because you’re rich, and if you ever lose that, then I’m leaving you faster than I drove that one time I tried to outrun the cops...
In sickness, and in health... You have another thing coming if you think I’ll take care of your sorry ass when you get sick...
Until death do us part... or until the next guy with a bigger wallet comes by.
You may now kiss the bride.
