wedding font supremacy

wyoming, matrimony as kink, and recommendations from around the internet

Unsolicited merch update: lots of stuff back in stock! Get 'em here.

Unsolicited events update: I’m opening for Marianne Williamson this Friday, 9/23, at Little Secret. Find more info and tickets here.

Wyoming on my shitty phone that I dropped in the sink while doing dishes and the camera’s permanently fogged, so imagine what it’s like in real life

We’re getting married in Wyoming next year, so my fiancé and I spent this weekend in the one-bedroom Wilson pre-fab my parents bought in the 90s in case L.A. didn’t work out. It’s elk mating season; horny elk sound like children screaming, so you can’t tell what’s coming from the woods and what’s coming from the Evangelical bible college next door. The air is so clean that I’m not allergic to dogs here.

Wedding planning, so far, has been a complex matrix of napkin pricing, boundary reinforcement, and resisting basicness. You must consider mason jars, and hashtag development, and whether your party is more of a tribe or a squad. You sign a girl-boss number of contracts, like the bridal salon one in which you promise to wear underwear. The universe of written communication is shrunk down to two fonts: a Rae Dunn-esque sans serif and a semi-bold cursive so ubiquitous that it’s hard to pin down, like generalized anxiety or structural oppression.

I actually love the idea of becoming a bride. In addition to being deeply and stupidly in love, the concept of matrimony gives me the thrill of the perverse. It’s pure camp, all tulle and purity speak. MILFs and hotwives walked so I could get a cannoli tower. But I hate those fucking fonts.