Fuck you. I had to drive for 45 minutes to the middle of fucking nowhere to bartend your ugly wedding. I had to endure the onslaught of ugly, tanned women in Mariposa dresses and douche-y men in aviators 50 minutes earlier than planned; I opened 20 bottles of wine in five minutes because for some reason you thought changing the itinerary of your "special day" would be totally okay with the staff working. I had to listen to your bridesmaids and groomsmen tell me, "I'M IN THE WEDDING PARTY, I DON'T NEED TO SHOW I.D."−to which I had to tell them, over and fucking over again, "Yes, you do, sorry," like I was a CD on fucking repeat. I bartended shitty beer from a keg for four hours nonstop with nothing but terrible hiphop remixes blared from some cunt with a flat-billed baseball cap on the decks. I don't care if the groom toured with Slipknot with his second-rate band; I don't care if the bride looked like Sammi "Sweetheart" from Jersey Shore; fuck you, because my other bartender and I only made $14 each that night. I hope your divorce is lengthy and expensive because your wedding was quite possibly the worst night of my life. Fuck you.—Anonymous
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.