If, hypothetically, a man wanted to marry me today, we would have to become water brothers first. For the growing closer. We'd teleport everyone to San Francisco for a reception at the Museum of Comic Art where the main exhibit would be a Neil Gaiman retrospective, with a display of poster artists who have crossed over into comic books in the adjacent room. (Hello, Tara McP!) The first half of the night everyone would dance to Neo's "Closer," played on repeat. The second half of the night, "Closer" would alternate with "Crazy In Love," for old time's sake. The one slow dance of the evening would be to Taylor Swift's "Breathe," (our wedding song in spite of its melancholy theme) and every person, single and coupled, would be forced to play Snowball in honor of my illustrious bar-mitzvah dancing career. Graffiti artists would decorate our tablecloths and our party favors would be
blind box Kozik Smokin Labbits with pictures of the in-love couple's faces taped to the bunnies' infamous buttholes.
My husband and I would don Wedding edition Nikes, and I would wear a white playsuit - something like this:
But whiter, and frillier, and with black tights.
Our invitations would be screenprinted by Kayrock and Wolfy and hand-delivered by Phillipe Petit.
I would throw a bouquet of
chocolate-covered bacon to my bridesmaids before Edward James Olmos picked me and my man up in the Galactica to take us on our honeymoon on Caprica, which will have been rebuilt for the occasion and staffed by nothing but shirtless Anders' and red-dressed Model 6's. Our fidelity wouldn't last the week, but neither of us would care.
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