cooksuck:

I suppose you think you’re just the kookiest couple on earth here - a McChicken?!?!! Whaaaa?! “Please tell me the significance of this,” said no-one, “Fuck your wedding will be terrible” thought everyone. I can just imagine the painfully forced, Frankie magazine levels of quirky wedding run sheet. Some fucking ironic “walk down the aisle” song, Nickleback or some shit; “We both HATE Nickleback hehehe won’t it be funny and totes orig!?!?” Some idiotic bar setup (read: not unlimited). Some fat religious mum who doesn’t drink or dance stewing away like a fucking cunt because her unemployable daughter can’t even give her the white, Anglo-Saxon Women’s day wedding she wants, sitting next to some pansy loser dad with poor whiskey knowledge.
Why get a ring if you clearly can’t afford it? I know you didn’t pay for this, it reeks of a fucking pay-day advance loan; you’re gifting your partner with debt, plain and simple.  It isn’t cute to patch together gifts on a budget.  It’s the thought that counts? Bah - thought doesn’t mean shit, thought when it comes to gift giving is like a fire extinguisher in a house fire. Once my ex girlfriend made me a handmade card for our one year anniversary with the actual napkin from the bar where we first met: "To the Man who took my heart, forever yours" in fine calligraphy, lightly scented etc. etc. bullshit after bullshit - where’s my fucking seaplane ride like I asked for? Not even a scratchie, fucking incredible, got rid of that dead wood quicksmart. 
Let go of your fucking past, seriously, don’t embrace it. You’re actually allowed to grow up a little - wearing Doc Martins and growing your disgusting bald patch hair long whilst wearing Lowes/Tarocash mismatched office gear at your shitty desk job is not embracing your youth in any way. You are dying, you are dying every second, stop pretending you aren’t you weird peadophile-vibing office embarrassment. I can just imagine your wife as well, probably into stockings with cherries on them, lots of red black and white; cheers for ruining those colours for  everyone by the way all you women-children of the world. You and your fucking arts and crafts and Lisa Mitchell and over the top love of avocado coupled with your unrequited and unreasonable desires to live in Paris. You’re still here, your dreams are unfulfilled and this lame proposal is the final nail.

cooksuck:

I suppose you think you’re just the kookiest couple on earth here - a McChicken?!?!! Whaaaa?! “Please tell me the significance of this,” said no-one, “Fuck your wedding will be terrible” thought everyone. I can just imagine the painfully forced, Frankie magazine levels of quirky wedding run sheet. Some fucking ironic “walk down the aisle” song, Nickleback or some shit; “We both HATE Nickleback hehehe won’t it be funny and totes orig!?!?” Some idiotic bar setup (read: not unlimited). Some fat religious mum who doesn’t drink or dance stewing away like a fucking cunt because her unemployable daughter can’t even give her the white, Anglo-Saxon Women’s day wedding she wants, sitting next to some pansy loser dad with poor whiskey knowledge.

Why get a ring if you clearly can’t afford it? I know you didn’t pay for this, it reeks of a fucking pay-day advance loan; you’re gifting your partner with debt, plain and simple.  It isn’t cute to patch together gifts on a budget.  It’s the thought that counts? Bah - thought doesn’t mean shit, thought when it comes to gift giving is like a fire extinguisher in a house fire. Once my ex girlfriend made me a handmade card for our one year anniversary with the actual napkin from the bar where we first met: "To the Man who took my heart, forever yours" in fine calligraphy, lightly scented etc. etc. bullshit after bullshit - where’s my fucking seaplane ride like I asked for? Not even a scratchie, fucking incredible, got rid of that dead wood quicksmart. 

Let go of your fucking past, seriously, don’t embrace it. You’re actually allowed to grow up a little - wearing Doc Martins and growing your disgusting bald patch hair long whilst wearing Lowes/Tarocash mismatched office gear at your shitty desk job is not embracing your youth in any way. You are dying, you are dying every second, stop pretending you aren’t you weird peadophile-vibing office embarrassment. I can just imagine your wife as well, probably into stockings with cherries on them, lots of red black and white; cheers for ruining those colours for  everyone by the way all you women-children of the world. You and your fucking arts and crafts and Lisa Mitchell and over the top love of avocado coupled with your unrequited and unreasonable desires to live in Paris. You’re still here, your dreams are unfulfilled and this lame proposal is the final nail.