Maybe it’s the DIY-er in me (Kirkus Indie editor, self-published author, duct-tape aficionado), but as my wedding day approached this past July, I grew increasingly anxious about the marriage-industrial complex, that gaggle of artisanal mercenaries you need for the rings, tux, dress, cake, flowers, photos, music and more necessary to pull off this supposedly intimate, emotional merging of two souls.
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I’m no masochist, so it’s not like we were really going to do everything ourselves (and my fiancée handled the lion’s ...
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