Dear Lady Who Works in My Office

Really? You're getting married? It's news to me. After all, you only call your mother to talk about it five trillion times a day. Loudly. Sometimes you call your sister and your best friend and have the exact same conversation again, this time adding, "well, my mom said..." You then seek out random coworkers and start the process all over again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Every fucking day. Look lady on the other side of the cubicle wall whom I've never met - I am happy for you. I am sure you and your fiancé will live happily ever after and have 2.5 wonderful WASPy children and drive 2.3 nice, but sensible cars; but if you mention this Goddamned mother fucking wedding one more time I am going to rip the mouse from your computer and strangle you with the fucking cord. Hey - I am all for the institution of marriage, whether it be among gay couples or straight couples. Interracial or homogenous. Animal, Vegetable or Mineral. I myself am married. But I swear to God that your holy union will not come to pass if I hear you prattle on about each and every minute fucking detail one more time. This may come as a HUGE shock to you, but no one in this office is lying awake at night worrying or coming in from the parking lot at a dead run, kicking over little old ladies in an attempt to get here as fast as we can in order to overhear what GODDAMN FLOWER ARRANGEMENT YOU FINALLY DECIDED ON!

What? You decided to get white roses instead of red? Stop the presses! You decided on Pastor Bill instead of Pastor Tom? I can now sleep at night! Your Great Aunt Edna says she can make it after all? Hooray! Here I thought she wouldn't make it.

Really. Shut. The fuck. Up. Do you really think we want to hear which hotel it is you are going to put all the guests in? I guess you do because every morning you regale us with an update on everything from square footage of the rooms to the layout of the fucking bathrooms. Seriously? The bathrooms? Do YOU even care about this? Do you honestly think that I go home wondering where you and your fiancé will finally decide to place the cake in the reception hall? Sure, the corner would be nice and out of the way, but don't you want it in the center, where all can see you so cutely shove cake in his face? Well, I don't think about it. The only thing I really ever think about is how I hope you drop the fucking knife you cut the cake with and impale your fiancé's foot.

Look - you're not special, you're not different. This isn't the first wedding in the history of the world. People get married every fucking day. This isn't the most important day of your life, though I've heard you say that no less than 10 times a day. I swear to Christ, if I hear that little gem pass your lips again, I will personally write and hand-deliver a letter of condolence to the groom, expressing my sympathies at having married such a self-absorbed, self-important cunt. If your wedding day is the most important day of your life, you, my dear, are profoundly fucked up.

So, lady on the other side of the cubicle wall whom I've never met, if you do want to wear that pretty nice dress (whose picture, incidentally, you have shown me, a person you don't even know, on at least 15 different occasions), you will kindly shut your fucking mouth before I, and everyone else in this office, take turns beating you like a fucking piñata. On a similar note, if the word "fiancé" slips out of your mouth one more time, you'd better prepare yourself for a severe and merciless gouging of the eyes with the first letter opener I can find.
Anyway, congratulations on the engagement. Bitch.