Sunday, March 10, 2013

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Girl - "Oh my god!"

Other Girl - "What?!"

Girl - "Do you hear that?"

Other Girl - "Oh my god, Lisa.  I'm so sorry."

Girl - "We have to fucking leave."

When planning a marriage, people sometimes forget to plan for divorce.

You're not supposed to be a pessimist, I guess, but lets be honest; all divorces are stemmed from marriage.

As little girls, we think of finding our perfect prince: a man who has long, wavy hair like the Little Mermaid's Prince Eric, flawlessly tan skin, a dimple in his chin, and preferably some sort of strong animal to ride in on the day he meets you.  He needs this strong animal to whisk you away so you can start your perfect life together.

Well, I was not one of those stupid girls who thought that life was anything like a fairy tale.  I was the young, independent woman who wanted a cat instead of kids, a condo in the Upper Any Side, and a high-power, high-anxiety job that justified the expensive wine and dinners I'd enjoy balancing them out.

Imagine my surprise when Rhett came along.  Rhett.  What the FUCK kind of name is Rhett?  I had never dated a "Rhett".  There were no bad memories or sour phrases associated with a "Rhett".  Not like the myriad of "Brad"s, "John"s, "Adam"s, and "Justin"s who had all done me wrong.  No.  Rhett was unsoiled, exciting, and my new espresso connesuir at the coffee shop down the street from my condo.

Pretty soon, Rhett was making me the perfect cappuccinos, fully equipped with those adorable creamy heart shapes, which I'd slowly drink down, desperately trying not to mangle the heart in any way.

Who knew, at that time, that Rhett would mangle mine.

Rhett turned out to not only be a perfect barista, but also the perfect boyfriend.  We would spend hours together, discussing eclectic music and books, laugh at comically bad old movies, and have ridiculously great sex, pretty much around the clock.

Fuck Rhett.  I'm totally over it, but fuck him for putting me in a position where I had to stop listening to music, stop reading books (not even the picture kinds), stop going to the movies, and cancel my Netflix and YouPorn subscriptions.

Nineteen months into our perfect relationship, Rhett had the nerve to propose.  I answered yes, stupid heart soaring, completely swept away by not only Rhett, but also the surprise that I, Lisa Hansen, had fallen in love with a man that I was going to marry.  Lisa Hansen was going to spend the rest of her life with someone.  One person.  One person that she actually happened to like.

Now I'm not dumb enough to like people.  See Rhett if you have a problem with it.

Anyway, I hate talking about it because it's in the past, and I don't dwell on the past, and I'm totally over all of this, but since I started, I may as well finish my story.

So, following the proposal...with the perfect fiancé came having to find the perfect new apartment in which we'd cohabitate and start our perfect lives.  We registered for the perfect plates, off which we planned to eat our perfect dinners.  We also thrift-found a breakfast table, which we set in a perfect little corner, where the sun perfectly poured in, and there, we discussed our dreams and doused ourselves in love (over our perfect cup of morning coffee).

I fucking hate coffee.  Seriously.  I can't even smell it.  If I really ever let myself be around people, I wouldn't be able to talk to them if they drank coffee, because I just know I could smell it on their breath.

Anyway, I found the perfect dress (so glad I didn't have it custom made, or I would be a completely bitter person right now), flowers, stylist, and walked down a perfect aisle, arm in arm with my perfect father, who passed me off to the (not-so-)perfect man.  After we kissed, we turned to face all of our friends and family, and the perfect song began to play.

Now, that fucking song is playing in this fucking Walgreens.

I have never hated Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros more than I do this very second.

My advice - never fucking get married.

Unless you're willing to lose your seemingly fucking perfect husband to some pixie-cute dollface poet who probably farts cures for degenerative diseases and shits world peace.  She is also probably vegetarian or corn syrup free, or some weird shit like that.  I'm totally over it, but somewhere inside me, I hope the two of them are completely miserable together.

Also, if you know of anyone looking to buy a condo in Lakeview East, just let me know, ok?


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