A new girlfriend invites me to attend the wedding of her step-cousin. It is a huge reception held in a epicurean French restaurant with marble everything. The bride’s side (my girlfriend’s step family) happen to be hugely conservative evangelists that insist on either talking politics or reenacting Adam Sandler movies. The groom comes from a long line of herpetologists whom insist on having me pet their various lizards, reptiles, and birds. Meanwhile a polyester clad twenty-something with bushy sideburns plugs an iPod into huge speakers and blasts Bob Marley’s No Woman, No Cry. In an attempt to evacuate, I crash into a table of pancakes and coat myself in thick maple syrup.
Death by anxiety, surely.