Color me bitter: ditched chick destroys own bridal gown.


I love chaos and destroying shit.

And I guess it’s one of those shared human experiences ’cause this chick decided she felt the same way:

(Well, she might have had a slightly better excuse than I usually do.)

The story’s that she got the groom-to-be’s boot just a few days before their wedding. Dude allegedly called her up and told her he “didn’t love her anymore”. Thus, she was suddenly left with a bunch of wasted money on services and catering and whatever else you people like to go into debt over to delude yourselves into acting like royalty for a day. I can’t help but interject and ask: why do people waste so much money on weddings? It’s like one of those big events you mentally transmogrify into something so massively daunting that it can’t help but self-destruct (or come really close). Throw enough money and stress at a life-long knot making moment, and someone’s bound to start buying a pair of track kicks to go with their tux.

Seeing as this particular chick indeed chose the traditionally favored route of financial rut-ness, she was now stuck with an overpriced dress and unsure of what to do to get over the pain of this last minute rejection. Then, she took the advice of her photographer: a “trash the dress” photo session. Really, I’m trying to find a way to pick apart this spectacle and chastise it somehow – but I actually love it. And none of the reasons have anything to do with an act of defiance against some dude who caught a case of cold feet. I mean, look at it – you’ve got your friends and family getting lost in that glee coated chaos that’s unfolding around you (always fun seeing people outta their element and acting like children). Plus, it’s like a cinematic food fight – except instead of wasting perfectly edible sustenance, you’re making a fantastic article of fashion to be modeled on a bridal mannequin in a local boutique later (which she did do). Screw a fiancée or cancelled matrimony or all this general bitterness I’m witnessing.

I’d just go and do this shiz just for fun.

Or – better yet – for my official “un-wedding” party I need to have.

It can be like my own Jackson Pollock twist on that one Sex and the City episode where Carrie Bradshaw decides to marry herself. Except instead of registering at a shoe store, I’ll be registered – a registered sex offender, that is, by the end of the debacle when I’m streaking through the streets slathered in a peacock flavored collage of gouache. And totally sober. Yes, this will be my stay-single ceremony as I ritualistically seal my bond with my higher self.

Invite friends and family to partake, buy myself a giant ring, and wear it on my middle finger.

And then show it off a lot when people ask if I’m married yet.


What if we’re only getting one side of a story here?

And like, she cheated on him? And that’s why he left last minute?

‘cause that’s what I’d do if I were the dude. Pretend I’m still gonna marry you, get your hopes up, and then… poof!

Ninja smoke.