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 big ass dress I wore to my, gasp,
first wedding. I would imagine by now you’re well aware that I am a (wo)man who 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 you know, surprising both myself and you.
As for the technical fowls: Marchesa dress, a 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 bridesbutts 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.
I am wearing huge fake lashes. 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.