The Beginning of CJ McBridezilla...

First and foremost, let me just state that I am normally a logical, well-rounded individual. I would also like to go on record having said that this is entirely the fault of one Mr. Trevor Clayton Thompson. I liked my little world. I loved going out at-will with my friends, slinking off to unseen nooks and crannies at the local gay bar to make out with some random, albeit hot boy whose name would never be of any importance in my life. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a fag, and I loved it. After-hours parties across the street until 7am, Britney Spears club-edit-remixes, self-proclaimed titles like the Queen of Peoria, and oh, the drugs: Extasy, Pot, Cocaine, Oh My!

Ok, so not all parts of my life were fagtastic. Perhaps, not even half of my life was as perfect as I wanted everyone to believe. The truth? I was circling the drain. In the giant tub of life, someone had pulled the stopper and I was being pulled under at a rate to which no one could stop me. This is not the stuff I'm proud of, mind you, but it is absolutely pertinent to the story of my, "Bridezilla Becoming."

It starts with an X. And also an EX. In June of 2008, I was living the life of a desperate housewife by day, and by night, my inner-Britney shown through. In the AM, I would get dressed in my Optical-best attire. I would slump into work anywhere between 8:00 and 8:15 and begin the tasks of customer service, employee dispute resolutions, and rearranging fantastic frames for purchase. Between the period of 4:00 to 4:30, I would then venture home. As my then boyfriend and I hadn't had sex in 11 months, I would retire to the Internet world of amateur porn. Don't get me wrong, I never placated my urges to porn. That's is a HUGE GAY CLICHE'. I did, however, enjoy the knowledge that at least somebody was getting it regular. Besides, most of those clips were funny on a level I can't even make up.

After an hour or two of the old Xtube, I would feed the dog, and watch episodes of "The Golden Girls" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" from my DVD collection. About 7:30, the dreaded ex would arrive home to entice me with the same on-schedule-every-week-meal for my enjoyment. Mondays, we'd have fettucini alfredo while watching DVR'd episodes of "Desperate Housewives". Tuesdays would be a homebake by Betty Crocker while we were entertained by "American Idol", and then for the results show on Wednesday there would be hamburgers. Thursdays over "Bones" and "Grey's Anatomy", we'd feast on Tyson pre-made chicken patties. Fridays would land me with some macaroni and cheese, Saturday's would be pizza and Sundays was a mystery...We'll call it ThrellerSurprise. Needless to say, I would also find myself at the bottom of 1.5 litres of Pinot Grigio for $4.99 from the local Wal*Mart. Uncorked, straight out of the bottle. I am a classy Girl.

Once the charade of my television-pinot-macaroni coma subsided, I would get the get-up-and-go. You see, I also had a schedule. for which the EX was not responsible, nor involved. The people changed, but the locations and themes were always the same. For instance, there was Tequila Mondays, Two-dollar-titty tuesdays at the local, world-famous strip club, and a low-key Crusen's night on Wednesday. Thursdays were Drag Night, followed by Gayla nights on Fridays. Saturdays were a sin-sespool culminating at the arrival to Diesel, the gay night club. Sundays were a day to sleep off the week.

Let me be very clear here. I never once hid my sadness or insecurities from my friends. I pride myself on my self-awareness and so I never once slipped into the dillusions that what I was doing was right, nice, or even OK. But, with sadness, I also developed a great apathy for the feelings of others. My ex was not even a blip on my radar any longer. He was, at best, inconsequential. For this, I do apologize to him, though something tells me he won't be following this blog.

So one Saturday night in June, My friends and I decide that a little Extasy enhancement would be a fun endeavor. So we partake of pills, and head down to one of the three gaybars from my hometown. After an hour or so, I am dancing around, mingling, and rubbing against everything that was bolted down to the sticky floor, when I see two ridiculously good-looking boys sitting at a table. In true gay tradition, they were sitting there silently judging the hordes of queens, bears, jocks, fratboys, and fatgirl faghags moving through the crowd. Now as I was, in a word, wasted, I was having a two problems. The first was an over-abundance of drunk courage, and second, that I couldn't tell whether the ridiculously good-looking boys were actually one boy that I was seeing double of due to my intoxication, or I was looking at twins.

The latter would be true.

So, me being me on X, I saunter up to the twins, plant my ass on the barstool, and ask the worst question in the history of pickup lines..."So, If I smack him, will you feel it?" Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's my A-game. The rest of the night goes down from there...Although, I did learn that the twins shared a favorite color, green. Oh, and that their names were Trevor and Taylor.

That was it. Trevor would become the object of my affections for the next five months, unbeknownst to him. That night would mark the day I would be destined to become this mess of a Bridezilla who in the words of Jason Mraz is "lucky to be in love with my best friend."