Last night I went to the first of what I assume will be many more of my friends tying the knot. It’s not surprising, as I’ve quickly watched my Facebook feed go from homo-social drinking binges and “boys vacations” to instagram photos of ugly babies, bachelorette parties and engagement rings. Listen, I’m an uncle and genuinely understand the ability of a baby to be ridiculously cute, but come on–yesterday a girl posted sixty pictures of her daughters first bath. Sixty! Not only did you openly post porn for pedophiles, but how many pictures do you think the world (I now refer to Facebook as the world, seeing it’s all we care about) wants to see of little Emma–or whatever her name is–getting her stupid baby hair washed? And really, she was crying in half of them. I assume it’s because you’re barely twenty and baby daddy bought cheap-a$$ Suave shampoo instead of Johnson’s No More Tears and now little Cindy has an eye infection. You going to post pictures of that as well?
My frustration is not in weddings (I love open bars) or babies, but more in aging. Getting older sucks. Do you know what happens when I scrunch my forehead together? Like twenty little rolls of fat and face jelly squeeze together and tell the world how old and ugly I am. Do you know what happened when I did that a couple of years ago? Nothing happened. My forehead would just sort of wink and look dashing as fu#k. All I have to do is sneeze and my face looks like Rosanne Barr trying to fit in a pair of extra-small Spanx. When I was eighteen I would go out all night, go to class in the morning and still spend the afternoon teaching myself how to sing like Nina Sky. Now I fall asleep ten minutes after 1:00am and I have to call out of work for a week and a half. I walk up a flight up stairs and my knees start cracking. Really? Ten steps and my knees start thinking, “you know what? This is just too much for us. We need to start hurting Danny so he’ll go sit back on the couch and think about his fat forehead.”
I guess the mix of wedding cake and baby’s first birthday invites has me hating. Not on children or love, just that the both of them remind me I no longer need a fake id to buy cheap bottles of Goldschlager and sneak into nightclubs with dumb names like, “Saucy” and “Club Fancy Doors.”
I wish I could still get into Club Fancy Doors with a dashing forehead,
Daniel Dickey
