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
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