Until I’m Mrs. Word.
43 months ago in the middle of July I was sitting on Westy Westergaard’s couch. A boy walked through the door who looked so painfully familiar that I was immediately overwhelmed with that obnoxious feeling you get when you feel like you’ve forgotten something very important. At the time I remember thinking to myself, “Maybe I don’t know him, maybe it’s just because he looks like Link from Zelda, with a little bit of that hobbit guy, the only good looking one… what’s his name? Dominic something. Man, I really hate Elijah Wood.” And while I was busy raking my memory desperately trying to recollect where in God’s name our paths could have crossed before, he ever-so suavely plopped down next to me. Here are the golden first words that poured from his lips:
Your legs look reeeeally smooth. Can I touch them?
The reincarnation of Casanova himself. The rest of the night involved my first (and last) game of beer pong as his partner. I don’t drink, so he had to drink all of my drinks. Which made him drunk. Which made him stoop. Which made him make-out with some fish-eyed rando.
The next day he managed to contact me. He asked to be friends. I told him I do not make friends with sleezy creepers or drunks. He said he was neither of those things. I told him to prove it. So he did. And by summer’s end we were inseparable and living together. And now we’re getting married.
PS Wedding invites go out on Wednesday