Guest Columns

Getting Married is NOT Metal

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Artwork by Matt Smith
Artwork by Matt Smith


Darkness has fallen in my paradise of personal defeat and with it has come the torrential tuned downpour of happiness dying, never to be reborn again. Where once I had rejoiced at the negative energy and the solemn vibes, now I only sense dread and the impending doom of matrimonial disaster. I never thought I could wish for a more blissfully hateful and painful death than dying alone in solitude, but then I got engaged.

A series of poor life decisions have led me here today, my own personal doomsday, and now I’m just sitting here in this bleak changing room, staring into the mirror-mirror on the wall, and it’s looking back at me going, “Shit dude, you sure you want to go through with this? I always just thought you only sang about pain and suffering just for the fun of it, but this is hardcore. Also, why are you still only sitting there in your underwear?”

Or that might have been my best man who also just told me that the dearly beloved who have gathered here today are starting to murmur impatiently. Sure, he may be monitoring me closely now, but where was he when I needed him the most? Friends don’t let friends take a knee and eternally bind themselves to the powers of darkness, unless it’s actually to the powers of the dark lord himself.

And while pre-show trepidation is nothing new to me, I really do miss my microphone. I have embraced the encroaching darkness many times in the past thanks to that mystical security device, but as a talisman my wedding ring just sits there doing nothing other than looking morbid and menacing because I naturally went for the charcoal black tungsten material option. It may as well have been forged with the magma of Mount Doom itself for all the future freedom and joy it’ll bring me. I’m about to plunge headlong into the most epic downfall imaginable and there’s nothing I can do about it. It seems that this time, I’m the one who got bewitched.

The whole nightmare first started when I gazed into the crystal ball of online dating, and what a mistake that turned out to be. 115 pounds of ruthless deception wrapped up in a tight little package of feminine charm haunted me from that moment onwards, and then I made the terrible decision to actually meet her in person. Now she’s putting on her white veil of death at this very moment, all cheer and splendor as she advances one step closer towards her ultimate victory of a future divorce and the spoils of separation that go along with it, which is why I preemptively implemented a scorched earth economics policy and have been recklessly donating all of my music and recording equipment to charitable organizations for the past six months. So at least when the darkest depths of financial ruin come, they will come for us both.

But what’s done is done and now all that there is left for me to do is don my weirdo black monk’s robe, fluff up my frilly whiteboy afro, and bear the pain like a truly maniacal messiah of misery as I headbang and fist-pump my way down the sacred aisle of despair. And when the bride finally enters the room and Wagner’s 19th-century ritualistic pagan Bridal Chorus erupts from the speakers, I will take one last look at the incarnation of evil surrounding me as both my mind and my bachelorhood silently slip away from the light and towards the abyss.

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