Some said it was impossible, I said: please pass the Vogue. Some said the repelling might end where the altar would start, I said: have you ever gotten your period in bed next to your companion? How about diarrhea? Some said the white dress may render too simple for a complex freak like the you or the me. I said: accoutrements, baby. You asked, here it is: a photo unfiltered by Instagram of the fat ass I wore to my, gasp,
first wedding. I would imagine by now you’re well aware that I am a (wo)man that appreciates, nay, celebrates shock value and not just shock value, sHoCk VaLuE. So while you were likely expecting a proper flotation device that would allow no space for party guests to enter the room in which I would get hitch(ed,) my traditional white dress decision was actually in-line with an effort to continue procuring universals gasps from your mouths and shit. How otherwise would I have been able to pair an organza motorcycle jacket equipped with obligatory removable three-tier tulle peplum, arm and neck jewels, a flower crown and full face o’makeup without looking Transylvanian?
…Accoutrements. As for the technical fowls: Marchesa dress, custom motorcycle jacket by Rebecca Minkoff and my intellectual property, fresh to death and literally just plain fresh as in new flowers-Flower Crown by Tantawan Bloom–the bridesbitches wore Cult Gaia, Dannijo Siamese cuff bracelets, copious gold neck-chains from my grandma. Consider them my something borrowed and also the vehicle that allowed me to look like Mr. T but in white both pigmentation wise and sartorially. Bumble and Bumble did my hair and Makeup by Audra painted this face and them lashes onto my, you know, face. Wedding isn’t code for vanilla ice cream in the proverbial sense of that phrase. Wear what you want, be who you want, refrain from sex as long as you want. Marriage is about being able to wear your retainers at night, that’s all.