I got the shakes -- hand me that paper

Anger is like my crack; I am horribly, painfully addicted. I love the way it feels coursing through my veins. It enervates me. It makes me cackle gleefully, and unlike other potentially life-damaging chemical addictions, it comes with absolutely no hangover. 

And that is why I cannot help reading the New York Times, no matter how insufferable it becomes. I am especially a fan of the Sunday Styles and, most particularly, the wedding section. It is the worst. 

Who Are These People? An actual kicker line from a one this week: "They discovered they lived only one block apart, which made it convenient for dating." If that's not a recipe for true love, I don't know what is. 

"Hey, you live here? I live here! OMG Let's bang!" 

If that were the real way of the world, don't you think I would have been in some interesting situations with the surly lesbians downstairs by now? Get real.

I wonder how these get written up. My theory is that it's something like a Mad Lib (okay, a form letter, for those of you who have progressed since middle school). You pay the Times whatever obscene amount of money you have to pay to get in there, they send you a questionnaire: Name an Ivy League School. Which brokerage firm employs you currently? Do your parents live in A) FL, B) Manhattan, or C) NJ (JK! we don't care about people who live in NJ!)? A company my father has been president of =  etc. Then they get those darling Times writers to just whip up one of their insightful and extremely well-phrased narratives. Voila -- the announcement of your special day looks just like everyone else's. Congratulations, you do fit in here.

Of course there are some that stand out: The couple who did not run a picture this week. Are they too poor? Or just really ugly? Where are your investigative journalists when you need them?

Another stand-out: those scallywags who were the main feature -- the best friends who ended up getting married. I was going to overlook the fact that they stole their romance from the plotline of every Julia Roberts movie ever, until they actually compared the bride TO JULIA ROBERTS. Smooth move, Freud. 

The worst part, though? The part that really inspired my utmost rage? The in-set picture on the featured couple was not a close-up of their faces, nor a photo of the ring, nor a crowd shot dancing. It was the groom's sneakers -- shiny black Converse. Because he's EDGY. 

Hey! Hey Guys! Do you see these? Do you see my "kicks" -- I am forever young! I am Virile! The Man can't hold ME down! Who wants to see me make out with Erin Brockovich over here?

If you can't wear big boy shoes to your own wedding, maybe it's time to re-think that whole life-long commitment thing -- it can get awfully tedious if you start counting when you're 14.  

I hope that next week features a wedding with a completely un-ironic Paris Hilton theme -- I'm going to need an even bigger hit to feed the addiction.