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bitch fall ’12

by devnym

Weddings are probably the single most ‘bitchable’ event in our lives. They give every person involved, from planning to reception, paid employee to most honored guest with a perfectly reasonable excuse to hate their fellow human beings, And that’s quite apart from the honeymoon!

Ok. You know that super aggressive chick at every wedding who bodychecks people to catch the bouquet? Yea. That’s me. I’m that girl. Call me superstitious, but I consider the throwing of the bouquet to be a serious business. Which is why mothers need to stop letting their little girls compete in this event. Tradition states that the woman who catches the bouquet will be the next to get married. I can’t compete with a 4 year old! If your little brat catches it, I won’t get married for another 14 years AT LEAST. I’m 32! By that time I’ll be 46, and I’m telling you, I’m not going to have the money to cosmetically keep everything as perky and youthful as it is right now. Because right now it’s great, but it takes a lot of work. So get your spawn out of the way, and let me catch those damn flowers, I only have a few more years left in me before I give up and start raising cats. Laura, public relations, Jackson Heights

If you’re having a BYOB wedding I’m not coming. Period. This isn’t a frat party, bro, you’re getting married. Look, I’m not stupid, I know the economy sucks. But aren’t there other things you could get rid of in place of an open bar. Lighting? Flowers? FOOD? Anything?! Please, God, I’m traveling to the middle of nowhere Ohio, I bought you some stupid Norwegian cutlery from Bloomingdales, and I’m stuck sitting with your fiance’s old sorority sisters. Please do me the common courtesy of getting me properly tanked. Thanks. Joey, IT admin, Crown Heights

Weddings bring out the best in me. Truly. For instance the last weekend but one I was at my cousin’s best friend’s wedding (we’re like sisters) to bring my total so far this year to 13. Thirteen! Same faces, different places. So in the absence of any decent talent ( that I hadn’t seen ten times previously) but with a surfeit of white wine (one of life’s true essentials) I ended up with my MacAir on the roof and managed a real insight! Boxes! Much of our life we deal with boxes. But at what point do boxes extend beyond our possessions? We set store and value to those four, hard walls that hold together our life. Society is steadfast on placing you in a box; your social circle, your lifestyle choices…everything you do can be ‘labeled’ and placed into a box. You have an playlist completely dedicated to Bon Iver? You’re a hipster. Love to frequent the consignment shops in the Lower East Side? You’re hooked on drugs and totally erratic. Have an entire rack of pencil skirts from Banana Republic in your closet? You’re a control freak. Just by taking one look at you, from what you wear to what you eat, what you listen to, how you walk, where you live, whatever you do: society can place you in that ‘box’ and you are valued from what label you have smacked across your head. How do we avoid these boxes? Well, simple: we give society a run for their money. You want to wear American Eagle polos and rock a mohawk with the most outrageous Doc Martens? Go ahead. Jam to Shrillex even though your office-mates think they are so cool by playing Adele on repeat. Hate to say it guys, but life is short and downright unfair; why the fuck would we want to regulate our lifestyle to fit within the box that society sees fit? Surprise us. God knows we are all so fucking bored with our lives anyway. Make it interesting, people. Bust out of your box. Jamie, merchandising, Jersey

Look I know this is a wedding reception and we are supposed to be having a great time and all getting along but believe me your kids are ugly and I don’t give a fuck about them. Not only do they run riot at social events which we jointly attend (and probably every single one you inflict them on) but every picture and facebook status you post about your children makes me want to shoot myself in the face. What makes you think I care? And the really sad thing is YOU don’t have a clue. “I can’t stop laughing! My daughter just got sent to the principal’s office again for calling her teacher a sucker! What a cutie ;)” Uh no, I do not think that’s cute. I think you should teach your child some goddamn respect so she doesn’t grow up and get fired for calling her boss an asshole and flutter her eyelashes and say “but my mommy always thought it was cute…” I don’t care what science fair or talent show your kid has just won or how smart, amazing, or [fill in adjective here] you believe your child to be. I get that every child is supposedly “special” and a “gift” and all that bullshit, but chances are, your stupid kid is going to end up just like you: obese and divorced. Ricarda, communications, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

(p.s. So you’re 8 years old and you’re absolutely exhausted. I get it. You’ve had a long day. I would too if I spent the better half of an hour finger painting the Founding Fathers in Social Studies class. But there is absolutely no reason why you should automatically get a seat on the subway. When we’re in a crowded car and a seat becomes available, I’m going to fight for it. I don’t care how young you are and I don’t appreciate people giving me dirty looks. First off, you’re a little boy. A little boy. Chivalry is not dead, don’t be rude. Second off, aren’t I the elder in this situation? I’m pretty sure you have to give up your seat to me. That’s how this works. Third, I’m wearing heels. Heels! I get priority. So don’t go crying to your mommy when I beat you to a seat. Man up. You’re 8 years old. And if you keep acting like I wimp, I’m going to have to take your Lunchables, too.)

Why is it that everyone’s ‘wasted’ personalities; the retrospective little habits you have when your completely inebriated really come to the fore at weddings (the endless free drink might be a clue); from excess babbling to target vomiting, vulgar flirting to the worst dancing ever, ever seen. I have lost count of how many girls have told me their last guy left them ‘broken’ before they stumble into the bathroom and fall asleep on the toilet. Girls who break their fake French tips on someone’s face because they accidentally bump into them. I actually was walking a girl home once when the local hobo on Spring and Lafayette asked for some change: her response? ‘Yea, one sec,’ she burped before she flat-out vomited into his cup. I’ve seen it all, and although some of you may think I’m going to say ‘Pull it together, you hot mess!’ to those ladies, I actually wanted to say to ‘Let it out!’ If anything gives me true insight into what kind of person you are, it’s your drunken tendencies. Let it out, girls! I want to get to know YOU; to set you apart from all the other twenty-somethings in this crazy city. Just as long as you don’t blow chunks on my shirt. Maxine, actor, Upper East Side

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