Recently, my BFF and Sean’s sister, Meagan, married another good friend of ours, Doyle. I know they will have a long and happy marriage because 1. They’re great people, 2. They had a superfun wedding, and 3. They have excellent taste in websites *cough*. Happy marriage, kids!

You lied, Hanks. Next you're going to tell me you don't actually solve crimes with your dog, Hooch.

Actually, the more I think about it, the more I realize that a lot of my friends are getting married or engaged lately. I guess it’s that whole “adulthood” thing. And here I thought being a grown-up just means you get a fabulous job and an apartment full of awesome toys (thanks for nothing, Big!). The thing is, weddings keep popping up in my day-to-day life.

Lately I’ve also been obsessed with the show Bridezillas. I know it’s wrong: it’s antifeminist, it’s excessively consumerist, and everyone on it is annoying as hell. But I just don’t care. I can’t take my eyes of the show’s endless parade of makeup-slathered beezies, Wal-Mart-shoppers, skinny rich girls, megabitches, whiny double-wides, and spineless men.  It’s a staggering display of ignorance and entitlement—like, you know, most television.

Also, Bridezillas would make a great drinking game: you only need to take a shot every time someone says “I’m the bride” or that it’s the bride’s “big day.” You’re probably going to throw up by the end of the episode anyway, so you might as well be plastered to boot. The only time you should tell someone it’s their “big day” is if it’s their first day of kindergarten. You say it at any other time, and you sound like either a spoiled baby or a pedophile.

Back off, bitch.

I’m even dreaming about weddings, probably mostly because of Bridezillas—and okay, reading websites like Wedinator is also not helping the problem. In the first dream, it was the day of my wedding (to whom, I don’t know, but who cares! It’s all about the BRIDE, ladies, amirite?!), and I was getting my makeup done. I didn’t like how it turned out, so they were going to kill me–that’s about how afraid I am of most people–but then Pete Hornberger rescued me, and we ran away together. This is obviously because Liz Lemon and I are soul sisters. My top favorite, though, has to be the one where I was watching a Molly Ringwald romantic comedy at the theater, and suddenly I was in the movie, as her. I was on a cruise ship, where I was supposed to marry Robert Downey, Jr., a fuddy-duddy cultural anthropologist…but I left him for a second Robert Downey, Jr., the wisecracking guy who was secretly in love with me! Two RDJs. Schwing!

And then, of course, there’s cake. I’ve had a long and torrid love affair with the frosted bits of heaven that we mere mortals call cake. I scour the Internet for cake porn, and I have an entire folder on my computer (nested within my “cute animals” folder) devoted to pictures I like of food, a good 70% of which are cake or cake-friendly. It takes every ounce of self-control that I possess not to spend my entire food budget at the bakery counter at Nugget Market (which is like a Whole Foods but with a somehow EVEN BETTER bakery counter…oh God I need to go there RIGHT NOW). I’m pretty sure that Jim Gaffigan is my real dad, is what I’m saying here; love of cakes must be in my genes. So, wedding cake=hells to the yes.

Now, let me make it very, very, abundantly clear—if for no other reason than for Sean’s sake—I am not getting married. I am not engaged, I am not engaged to be engaged, and I don’t have some kind of weird promise ring from my dad like Jessica Simpson did. I mean, Sean and I love and honor and cherish each other, and all that; I assume the alternative is to spit on and ignore each other? But we’re pretty much children. Sure, he’s been a successful business owner and I have a bachelor’s degree, but I’m eating M&Ms and day-old coffee for breakfast right now, and last night we had tater tots for dinner. For Christmas, instead of getting romantic gifts and creating cherished memories (via capitalism), we bought a big screen TV and an Xbox 360 together. We have still been known on occasion to sneak into the movies.  You see? We are not adults. And anyway, I think Sean is secretly holding out for Kari Byron from Mythbusters. Hot chick who gets excited about physics? Yeah, even I’d marry her over me. Of course, I promised myself a long time ago that I’d marry Scott Bakula/Dr. Sam Beckett, if he ever leaps home, or my second grade P.E. teacher, Mr. Gray, if he does not.

Okay, Kari. Tone down the awesome just a little. Please.

Aside from which, a wedding is not the same as marriage. Marrying because you want to have a wedding would be like going to college just for the frat parties—oh, wait, a lot of people do that. Maybe it’s like joining the military for the signing bonus—hmm, I guess they do that, too. How about it’s like having a baby so that you can buy tiny clothes and throw a shower—dammit. Oh, for God’s sake, America, will you please grow up and stop confusing parties with real things? This is why we’re indebted to China, you know. Billions upon billions of plastic noisemakers and cardboard novelty hats.

But since I am not getting married, and by correlation I am not having a wedding (nor do I really want to), I figured there was still a way for me to channel this weird new thing I’m obsessing about.  I shall plan the ultimate wedding, and I shall call it Ultra Wedding. Click to open, but beware: you may come to love it more than you love your fiance. It knows that, and it spurns your love for it as weakness.