Here comes the bride.

   So the Royal Wedding's going on, I think right at this very moment? And I wish I was all hyped out about it like the billions of adoring fans out there – frantically rushing to their social networking devices to post 'exciting' updates every few seconds, just so that they'll feel like they're part of this big phenomenal event. Or maybe I'm just being a total party pooper about all of this. But it's funny though, because the people who know me, know how much of a cheesy chick-flick kind of romantic I am, always hoping for a John Hughes ending to my little story. So why wouldn't I be excited for what many call one of the most romantic days of our lifetime? I don't know, I really don't. So while everyone's out flipping television channels menacingly to extract out all the possible details they can manage to contain long enough to Tweet, blog, Tumble, or Facebook about, I'll be sitting in my room, reading Middlesex and fantasizing about ridding myself from this fat suit that has, over the past billion years or so, managed to glue itself to my entire body. The only thing I'll be watching out for will be what the Beckham's are going to wear, because well, you know.... (oh how superficial of me)!