By Ivan Vargas
I'm proud to call myself a New Yorker. The State finally did the right thing. Now I need to find me a stud... and that Vera Wang dress. I'll make an adorable bridezilla and I'll make sure everyone shakes in terror as I prepare to say my vows. I'll have that luxurious wedding at Saint Pat's, the reception at any grandiose place of my choice that is comfortably nestled in Manhattan, preferably on the High-Line, and I'll finally be able to scream stylized bon mots at my husband during those nights locked inside our Manhattan hi-rise, preferably with a Central Park view, that will make George and Martha shake their head in shame and long for Albee to raise their verbal violence just inches short of gunfire and manslaughter. Oh, the expensive dinnerware and cutlery and Japanese vases we'll fling at each other full force, the nights filled with stares of sheer anger and nary a word uttered as the tension rises and Juanita the maid wonders if this will be the night she'll become mincemeat, and then, the operatic moments of fabulous man-sex that will cement that we, in short, are a Couple. Thank you, New York!
Go Ivan! You're going to make someone a terrific whatever!
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