Every wedding is a battlefield.

Dedicated to Rory.

Picture an old stone farm on the top of a Sicilian hill that got an Instagram treatment. A lavish table for 300 people is set outside, where horses used to trot. There are bars set up strategically, carpets and soft cushions colour-coded to perfection, and fairies floating around. A surprisingly varied group of young, beautiful people from all around the world are mingling aggressively, showing off their wit, prestigious education and expensive habits. A gorgeously spent Caribbean jazz singer is pouring her soul out. In the backdrop, a wildfire ravishes a hill, yet no one cares to notice as the wind carries the smoke over the sea.

I am one of the few sober people. I get to enjoy the whole picture. Social circles are formed, and they fall apart. Some are cooler than others, but nobody would admit their circle is uncool. Nothing meaningful is happening, yet there is a constant flow of people who pretend to have a purpose for each move. I am bored and tired, so I switch to the National Geographic special on mating.

There are a few attractive single ladies, but the hunt is really on for the one blond girl, perhaps because she is the only hot one not from the Middle East and is perceived to have lower morals. Men bombard her, single and not from all sides, all night long.

A guy comes over to me; his girlfriend, left the party after he paid too much attention to everyone but her. "I could fuck anyone here, you know? It would be easy, but I must follow my girlfriend home." I nod meaningfully and add some fire to his flow of toxic masculinity. "You already got the drama; why not make it worthwhile?" He looks around, finds that blonde and tells me: "I could "bite" her, I probably should. Why aren't you going after her?" I responded that I had a girlfriend who unfortunately could not attend the wedding, so I was uninterested. He glowers at me: "So if she would come to you and compliment your hair, you would do nothing?" "She already did", I respond with a smile.

He doesn't believe me and looks around once again. We are in a sea of beautiful, powerful women who know their worth and are dressed to kill. I notice a flicker of defeat in his eyes. The reality sinks in. I probe him, and he comes up with an excuse: "If I do something here, it will get back to my girl, and you know I kind of like her." I compliment him on being a good guy after all, and he snaps: "Well, you see, I ain't a good guy. I want to bite everyone here, and I can, too; I just can't handle the drama." What he really means is there's no chance on earth he gets laid at this event, but I still generously compliment him on being a good guy despite his urges and watch him walk away slumped.

An hour later, I am chilling on a dance floor sofa, watching the remaining few go for their final push. This guy looks like a slightly younger protagonist of Solomun's Kackvogel music video. He is also cosplaying him a little with his moves and suit. He is the last prowler standing; the other guys are just having fun and are not on the hunt. He sits down next to me and, pointing at the laser projection on the ceiling, starts spitting banalities into my ear: "We are all so irrelevant! Cosmos is what's up, man! We all are just specks of dust compared to the cosmos, man. Fucking useless specks of dust, maaan. And Cosmos is where it's at, you know?" I nod at his flow, and when it's over, I wind him up with, "Oh yeah, that is so deep, my man, so true." He is happy, his face glowing with recognition, goes back on dancing and in a few minutes comes back with more wisdom: "Fucking useless specks maaaan, but Cosmos maaaan is where it's at! What's the point of all this?" I honestly respond that I have no idea, and he eagerly explains: "The point is to make a mark, maaaan. To rebel against this indifferent void by spreading your genetic material far and wide, maaaan!" I nod again, express awe at his thought and wind him up further with compliments of his depth and originality.

The blond is still in the middle of the dance floor. She is not dancing, just being that erotic presence, the focal point of all sexual tension in the room. My new philosopher friend lands again on the sofa beside me and opens up with: "That blonde? Does nothing to me, not interested, you know?" I look at him in disbelief, but he continues: "But you know what I'd do? I'd fuck her for four hours straight; I'd set that iPhone timer and fuck her for four hours straight so she knows what a real man is". His face is red, and his spit flow has quadrupled. I look at him, wish him good luck and walk away with a dry smile and a bit of shock.

For the rest of the night, I engaged in a few beautiful conversations with guys and girls who dropped the hunt. Most of them were drunk, yet they seemed way more sober when compared to the sex fiends.

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