A Letter To Those Not Invited To My Wedding

A Letter To Those Not Invited To My Wedding 

The first emotion I intend to incite is jealousy. If it can even be called an emotion, I don’t know, I don’t think it is...whatever, I couldn’t care less. These years on the road have taught me greater things than etymology. I’m saying here, now, between testing suits at a shop in Auckland, that my wedding is coming up, and it’s going to be awesome. Those years which I spent locked in my room, shitting and pissing on my own carpet, praying, literally cutting myself, and eventually writing...ultimately paid off. Who would’ve predicted that playing guitar for seven hours and piano for the remaining seventeen would lead me to starting one of the most successful alternative rock bands in America? I’ll say for certain -- none of you did. My band’s first record got eighteen million hits in six months, and within the year, we were selling out venues from that shithole we grew up in (Detroit) to right here, in Auckland (which, by the way, is my dream city). The first thing I did with all that fucking cash was buy a car. Not a flashy one, like my bandmates did, but just something that could, you know, drive. As opposed to the cars you “gifted” us, Aunt Jane. You know, the one that had no brakes (and you knew damn well it didn’t). Reminds me of when Uncle Derek sent us old Yankee tickets for a Christmas gift, and then pretended he didn’t know they were for Yankees/Expos in 2003. The goddamn nerve of you all.

Okay, this isn’t a letter intended to remind all you of the neglect you’ve paid my family, or the terrible things you did to us while we were growing up in that crack house on Mud Avenue, DETROIT. Not to remind the Florida cousins of when they burned down the cabin in Maine for the insurance money. Not to remind Uncle Travis of when he touched my sister, or remind all of you collectively that you never once visited us up north. There were a whole lot of excuses for that one, weren’t there? “It’s too cold”, “it’s too much of a drive”, “we’ll see you guys in Maine next year, anyway”. And you all knew damn well that you’d be out on the family golf reunion while my parents were stuck at home, burpring us babies and working four jobs collectively to keep the aforementioned crackhouse. 

Okay, I’ll pretend I didn’t mean to say all that. 

I’ll tell you about my wedding. 

After two albums and three years of touring, I earned enough to move down to New Zealand, which, for all the Illinois family, is a little island by Australia, which is a big island shaped like a poodle. It’s like America but way fucking better. I brought with me a girl from Iceland, who I met on tour and (instantly) fell in love with. The real kind of love, the love based on trust and communication and the ability to shut the fuck up around each other and enjoy a nice moment of silence (see Pulp Fiction). It’s a great little story, really. She’s the sort of girl that would make a great mother, if we ever go that route, but who I met in a mosh pit. She’s like a country gentleman, always holding the door open for people. And she has an outstanding sense of style...fedoras, wide-rimmed glasses, trench-coats. Nerdy clothes, sure, but she looks like a damn model with them on. Ha, the move to the south will be tough, because, as opposed to (you know, whores), she likes wearing lots of clothes. But not in a reserved way,  in a sexy way. 

Jesus.

Well, she’s really cold, but really sweet, and just an absolute riot. Her smile is crooked but blinding, and she’s a brilliant painter. She went to art school, but quit because her standards were too high. Now she’s studying to be a fashion designer. Honestly, she’s the most human person I know, and the perfect muse for a lowly songwriter like me. She kisses like nobody’s business, too. 

And anyway, we moved down here to a little ranch and a massive house. It’s greener than you can imagine, with herds of sheep roaming the rocky hills. The place is truly a picture of quaint perfection, seasoned by long, drowsy summer winds and brilliant, orange winter sunsets.

I’m just kidding, we moved to a penthouse in the city, but the view of the morning drunkards is still quite lovely. Though, in fact, we are getting married out in one of these mythical pastures. It’s going to be in July, right in the middle of winter, and it’s going to be gorgeous. We’ve organized a flower pavilion of every species imaginable, and we’ll be married by this Maori tribesman. Real life shit. The reception will take place at the edge of these cliffs that face the Saokki waterfall, and everyone will be swing dancing, because we hired a Japanese swing band. It’ll be a goddamn 20s flapper-fest, with chocolate cake and seafood and wines older than Aunt Mary. 

And you (yes, you) are not invited. 

Basically, this letter is intended to be a “fuck you” for not visiting us or sending us money or even bothering to write back. Because I wrote a lot of letters, and guess who answered? No one. No one except Ruth, who will be in Auckland on July 7. I’m flying her out myself, as I am for every guest/attendee. So, I believe that’s all I have to say. I know you won’t read much into this. You’ll just think “he’s an asshole” or, “I’m telling People about this”...whatever. Seriously, give a long moment of thought before you catch fire. I’m begging you to regret your neglect of the extended family, and I’m sick of pretending that I love you. 

Okay, here are my final words:

Please change. 

I don’t love you.

Fuck you. 

Sincerely,

Andy

(your very happy nephew, cousin, grandson)