You didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed, you woke up on the wrong side of town. In a tuxedo.
The intermittent flashes of grim behavior bursting through the pitch-black caverns of your limbic system evoke emotions from childhood, when you saw two dairy trucks flashing high beams at each other collide, creating an apocalyptic hellfire of glass, steel and unpasteurized milk.
Sure, there was a day you could remember weddings. Like that time you dazzled guests with a pitch perfect toast. Or caused loveless lips to quiver, singing “Bump N’ Grind” with the band, making R. Kelly’s video play like an ad for Dulcolax.
Now your presence at a wedding stirs up the same uneasiness a sailor feels when the salty winds pick up, and the clouds turn dark. Bartenders lay odds on your intake, leery guests form body walls between you and the children, and born again ex-cons on security pray this is the time you go too far and sucker punch the priest.
The wedding guest formula is simple. Have two drinks. Stay off the dance floor. And respect the permanence of social media, where apprehensive couples look to see if their wedding needs a guest violating the centerpiece or duplicating indistinguishable renderings of Nick Nolte’s mugshot.
With that in mind, it’s probably too late. I now pronounce you banned for life.