IT’S not my fault you’re getting married. I don’t see why I should be punished.
But, nevertheless, you are not only going ahead with a full church wedding at an age when it is ridiculous to do so, you have demanded that I be your bridesmaid.
While you claim that you’re asking me to do you ‘this honour’ because I am ‘so special’, forcing a friend to spend a day looking like a hippo dressed up in her nan’s sofa cover can only be motivated by revenge.
What did I do to deserve this? Is it karma for a heinous deed in a past life, or have you been playing the long game and it’s retribution for when I set the school toilets on fire and blamed you for smoking?
I can’t say no without looking like an ungrateful cow, and you also know that I’ll get so pissed to cope with the discomfort that I’ll end up doing something doubly embarrassing like shagging your Uncle Alan again.
And while I can fuck with you a bit by organising a hideous Cardiff hen night involving a pole dancing class and enough Jägerbombs to kill a horse, the damage is done.
On what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, I will be wearing peach satin, struggling to breathe because I never lost that last stone, and seated at the top table well away from all the fun and right next to your fucking mother.
I’m already planning my next wedding, just to even the score.
