I’m right around the age (30) where marriage and kids become a natural topic of concern in relationships. Specifically among those whom I went to school with and lived near, however casually and coolly I might know them now. And guess what, kids? In all of your stupid, expensive, stereotypical “fairytale” weddings where the bride dresses up like a fucking blancmange from Monty Python, every fucking inbred relative and their fucking relatives are invited too (“Because!”), I’m the one who ran off and had a stereotypical Las Vegas wedding: Courthouse. 10pm. Back outside in fifteen minutes. Off to Circus Circus for drinks.
The only potential downside I can foresee is not having possessing the moral high ground to berate Garrett or Caira when they run off to Las Vegas at eighteen to marry a stripper.