Guys, guys, guys – check it out!

Totally found the place where we’re holding the wedding.  Hope you don’t mind that we’re changing the venue at the last minute.  It’s an awesome barbecue pit right next door to this place:

I know, awesome, right?

David’s Bridal has nothing on THIS place.

Hold on, I’ve got to go.  I think my fiancée is upset about something.


Business or pleasure?

Has anyone seen my inhaler?

Pack light.

Yesterday I once again found myself sitting for hours in the car on the way to a remote location.  Unlike a few weeks ago, when the goal was to dress up like Renaissance Faire rejects and hit each other with foam swords, instead my fiancée and I took the trip down to Long Island, as the wedding’s inching closer and today is a mandatory dress fitting or something.

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Enemy of distaste.

And I want to watch WWE Raw.

Suddenly I’m hungry.

Sometimes it’s all too easy as an American to simply stick your head in the sand and go about your daily routine, blissfully unaware of the wider world around you. Can’t tune in to CNN when you’ve got to get the kids to soccer practice and then race home to give the hubby a quick hummer so he doesn’t leave you for the maid; no time to read the New York Times, not when the season finale of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” is on tonight.  Still, there are times when you can no longer ignore the wider outside world, especially when someone or something finally pops that insulating bubble of solipsism you’ve inculcated within yourself in order to protect you from the ravages of actually giving a damn about other people.

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Do I really need to give a shit about the NFL?

Mmmm tasty.

It’s all bullshit in the end.

There needs to be a pretty egregious fuck-up in the sphere of professional sports news to make it through my bubble of apathy for me to take notice.  The current replacement referee debacle in the NFL is one of those massive news stories that not even I can ignore no matter how hard I try, but I have to ask: is all this bullshit really necessary?

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Hail the Emperasque!

Dogs fucked the Pope - no fault of mine.

Is this what it’s like inside Hunter S. Thompson’s head?

I know you’re not supposed to take other people’s medications, but I finally broke down and begged the fiancée for some pain medication last night so I could get some work done.  As a result, I was finally comfortable for the first time since Saturday, but I was also tripping balls hardcore.

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