We’ve all had one. That boarding school friend who thinks it’s funny to shave your head when you’re passed out and spikes your coffee with Robitussin just before you have to present your thesis on Nabokov. She’s the girl that sets fire to daddy’s superyacht, and last week I heard that she was getting married. Well, throw me on the plane, because what could be more entertaining than seeing a bat shit crazy person spend $20 million in one evening? I’m crashing this thing.
There was a chocolate canal and a forest. And we were inside. I think there were peacocks in the forest. Hey, maybe you can afford acrobats and a fake castle, inheritance is great. Just know that your guests will resent your showmanship and be so nervous that their gown is two-seasons old, that they won’t dance or eat anything. So you just threw five hundred tilapia sliders down the drain.
When Pepito and I were united in then-wedded bliss, it was a tiny, elegant affair amongst the orange groves at dusk. I wore a bit of organza to cover my essentials, and everyone could recognize what to eat and what to just observe. The piano quintet serenaded us into the wee hours, and then everyone tore off their clothes and leaped in the pool, because by that point, who cares about class. We had made our point.