I had a long weekend, travelling to and from Indiana for my cousin Jessica’s wedding. The wedding went off without a hitch, and Jessica was the least stressed and happiest bride I’ve ever seen at a wedding. I had to be down for the rehearsal, since I was reading petitions, and I left work early on Friday to make it there on time. No sooner do I get south of 271, then a dumpster overturns ten cars in front of me and I have to sit on my ass for an hour. The driver wasn’t hurt. I still made it on time and went to the rehearsal dinner as well, where I had Chicken Parmigiana, Grilled salmon sundry vegetables and a potent raspberry sorbet for dessert.
The day of the wedding was long and busy, with me assisting the mother-of-the-bride with various last minute errands, but it ended with all the vodka I could drink and a Cohiba, so I’m not complaining. The reception was a blast, and the prime rib we had there was delicious.
I got up early the day after the wedding, hangover-less thanks to my body’s talent at processing Russian agua, and helped my aunt prepare for the post-wedding brunch. Right after everything was finally ready, I ate a bunch of brunch food [including sugar cream cake, for which my aunt refuses to give me the recipe] and then hit the road.
I made it back to Cleveland at about 4:30 and sent out my football ticket applications and got ready to do my laundry. I was greeted by my confederate flag-waving neighbor, drunk off his ass and stumbling down my street and smoking up with his similarly drunk off his ass friend. They called me a faggot, although they also live on Fruit Avenue. I should expect such paradoxes from my rednecked brethren by this point, especially after living in Connersville for 18 years.