Marrying Yourself

Marrying yourself is now a thing.

This is the last, desperate hope of women, otakus, and overly-dramatic men who cannot find anyone else to put up with their craziness. It is a showy celebration that masks what is inalterably a defeat.

I feel for these people. I get the idea of wanting to shove it in everyone’s face – all the misplaced anger, all the sorrow, all the self-loathing. However, instead of trying to fix their problems, they create a fake holiday and celebrate their failure. It’s silly, sad, and ultimately, childish.

I have a lot more respect for the people that kill themselves than for the people that marry themselves. The people who commit suicide at least have come to grips with their defeat and decide that they cannot abide living any longer. The people who marry themselves celebrate a lie and invite others to participate in their lie and then demand that everyone else walk on eggshells to celebrate their lie. Worse, what will happen when the novelty of this self-marriage wears off? Will they ashamedly admit that it didn’t fix their problem? Will they live out their life in solitude, being married in a sense? It is so meaningless and empty, and worse, needlessly complicating.

I suppose the terminally dramatic must remain so; those who do not grow up must not grow up. Continue the facade, the parade of senseless things, and fall slowly into that river of irrelevance; that empty wedding dress next to you in your king bed will remind you that you are still sleeping alone, and the cold whispers that you will be sleeping alone forever.

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