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Our Wedding Will Have No Food, No Chairs, No Eye Contact Because My Guests Will Suffer For My Amusement
By Taylor Best
Hey besties, it's me, Taylor Best — your favorite wellness girlboss, main character of the universe, and soon-to-be bride who's about to serve the most iconic main character moment in Austin history.
I'm not doing a basic wedding. Ew. I'm throwing a 1,000-person spiritual endurance trial where every single one of you gets to orbit my ascension by quietly suffering for six hours straight. No cap, this is going to be so transformative.
For me. Obviously.
I don't want you leaving happy. Happy is for mid people who still eat carbs and think "hydration" is a personality trait. I want you leaving destroyed in the best way.
Your stomach growling? That's my bouquet.
Your shaking legs and locked knees? My something blue.
Your silent "I hate this girl" energy? Literally my unity candle.
Your future UTI from holding it for six hours? My confetti.
Your quiet, simmering resentment? That's my something borrowed from every bride who came before me and didn't have the guts to be this iconic.
Your suffering is my whole aesthetic, period. Its art.
Wedding: The Ground Rules (Non-Negotiable)
My frequency is more important than your weak little needs.
Here is the vibe:
No food: Eating is emotional outsourcing and low-vibe behavior. Chewing is rude. Digestion is a distraction from my glow. Starve beautifully, thanks.
No chairs: Sitting is for people who aren't obsessed with me. Gravity is canceled. Your legs will learn to vibrate higher if they know what's good for them.
No eye contact: Unless it's worshipfully on me while I'm being filmed. Your eyes are rented for the day. Look at the ground. Look at my aura. Do not look at each other. That's emotional cheating and I will feel it.
No water: Hydration is for delulu normies who can't astral project. If you pass out, just make it cinematic. I need good B-roll for my recap video.
No extras: No alcohol, no caffeine, no snacks, no nothing. Colonial, capitalist, toxic masculinity energy. I said no. Period. End of discussion.
No bathroom breaks: Unless you Venmo me $10 for the "sacred release portal." Yes, I have a QR code ready. No, I won't refund it if you don't make it in time.
No noise: No talking, no whispering, no loud breathing. Your existence is already loud enough when I'm in the room. If you must communicate, use interpretive hand gestures or telepathy. I'll know if you're gossiping about me. I have psychic protection.
A Note to Vulnerable Guests: Kids, pregnant girls, diabetics, and your dusty old relatives? Try harder, bestie. My day, my rules. If you can't vibrate higher than your medical condition, that's a skill issue. Work on it before you arrive.
The Groomsmen: A Hunger Games-Sized Audition
Now let's talk about the real entertainment of the evening — my groomsmen. I have twelve of them. Why twelve? Because I wanted an even number and also because I need options. Kevin is technically the groom, but let's be real, he's a placeholder until someone better comes along. And honestly? Kevin knows this. He's accepted his role as "temporary vessel."
Here's the twist, besties: Every single groomsman will be wearing a microthong.
That's right. Microthongs. No pants. No shorts. No kilts. Just a tiny little scrap of fabric that barely covers the bare minimum, strategically positioned to create maximum humiliation. They're custom-made, ethically sourced from a woman in Portland who weaves them out of discarded fishing nets and broken dreams. Each one is a different color of the rainbow so I can tell them apart from a distance.
Why? Because I want to judge them. I want to rank them. I want my girls to gather around me like we're at a Roman colosseum and point at each groomsman's... let's call it "package potential"... and decide who's the runner-up. Who's the backup husband. Who's the consolation prize if Kevin finally snaps and runs off with a brisket taco.
The groomsmen think they're here to support Kevin. They're wrong. They're here for my entertainment.
The Uniform Rules:
You walk down the aisle in your microthong. No cover-ups. No robes. No "modesty panels." If you're cold, vibrate harder.
You stand at attention for the entire ceremony. Any visible shrinkage will be noted in the official scorecard.
During the reception — which is just 90 minutes of me talking about myself while you all stand and hum — the groomsmen must perform a "group intention setting" where they turn in slow circles so the entire guest list can assess the merchandise.
At the end of the night, I will crown one groomsman the "Runner-Up Husband." He gets a ceremonial sash and the knowledge that he was this close to being the main character.
And if any of them cry? Bonus points. I want tears. I want visible insecurity. I want them to question their entire existence while standing in a microthong in front of 1,000 hungry, dehydrated, barely-conscious guests who are also suffering beautifully.
If they don't have the package? If they're lacking in the presentation department? Oh, we're making fun of them. We're pointing. We're laughing. We're writing commentary on the actual scorecards we're handing out to every guest. There's a QR code on the back of each scorecard that links to a live leaderboard updating in real time on Kevin's Only Fans account I made force him to do.
Kevin was told he's "not eligible" because he's "the starter husband." He asked what that meant. I told him to stop asking questions and focus on his posture. He's been doing squats in the garage ever since. Good boy.
The Guest Scorecard: Everyone Gets To Participate
Every guest receives a personalized scorecard upon arrival next to their tree-bark plate.
The scorecard includes:
Name of the groomsman (pictured, shirtless, from three angles).
Rating categories: Presence, Confidence, Vibration, and Package Potential.
A space for comments (e.g., "Looks like he's smuggling a hamster," "I felt that energy from across the venue," "Kevin is trembling and I'm here for it").
A tear-tracker — check the box if the groomsman cries.
Final ranking — 1 through 12.
At the end of the night, guests submit their scorecards to a velvet bag held by my spiritual advisor, Bodhi. I will count the votes in a private ceremony (filmed for my Patreon, obviously) and announce the winner via Instagram Live.
The runner-up groomsman must then give a speech. Not Kevin. The runner-up. Kevin can just stand there in the background, holding my train, knowing he's been publicly evaluated and found wanting.
Mandatory Lines for the Runner-Up Speech:
"I am humbled to be second place in Taylor's heart.""I accept this role knowing that Kevin is merely the placeholder for my potential.""I promise to vibrate higher and be ready in case Kevin fumbles.""Thank you for this opportunity to be objectified in front of my entire family."
(If the runner-up cries during the speech? I'll Venmo him $20.)
Dismantling Lame Suggestions
I shut down every basic idea from the planner because I'm literally that girl.
Taco bar? Cultural appropriation, babe, and frankly, the smell would distract from my perfume.
Sliders? Processed trauma on a bun.
Chocolate fountain? Liquid dopamine addiction for peasants who can't regulate their own serotonin.
Fruit platter? Agave agriculture is a carbon nightmare and also I don't like the way pineapple tastes.
One loaf of bread? Gluten is the patriarchy and I'm not funding it.
Instead, you each get one shared bowl of air-dried kale dust to stare at lovingly but never touch. Swallowing is greed, sweetie. Admiration is the only acceptable consumption.
And yes, I dropped $28,000 on custom tree-bark plates engraved with your astrology sign and the words "You Are The Offering." Ate that budget allocation, didn't I? The vessel matters more than the contents. That's basic design psychology.
When my dad started crying about my 75-year-old diabetic grandma needing "a little something" — a cracker, a sip of water, a single grape — I just smiled and said:
"Daddy, if she can't raise her vibration above Type 2 diabetes, that's a skill issue. She side-eyed me at rehearsal. I felt that in my solar plexus. It threw off my alignment for three hours. She should be thanking me for letting her witness this moment. Also, she never liked my TikTok content. I know she screenshots my stories and sends them to her bridge group. I have sources."
The Final Itinerary
This isn't about you. This is about me glowing up while 1,000 NPCs stand there like sad little background characters, slowly realizing they spent money on flights, hotels, and a Target registry gift just to be props in my content.
Your misery is my serotonin. Your group chat meltdowns tomorrow? My favorite engagement bait.
Kevin — my walking beige flag of a fiancé — learned his place after I stared him down for suggesting water stations. He hasn't had an original thought since 2023. He's basically a human ring holder at this point and I'm obsessed with how well he's serving that.
I can't wait to float down the aisle in my ethically-sourced oyster shell gown — yes, it smells faintly of low tide, yes, that's intentional, it's earthy — while you all stand there lightheaded, sweaty, locked-kneed, and questioning every life choice that brought you to this moment.
First 45 Minutes: Me talking about my journey.
Next 90 Minutes: Me talking about my journey while you stand and hum.
Next 30 Minutes: "Group intention setting" where you all tell me how this experience has changed you.
Next 15 Minutes: A video montage of just me, set to whale sounds.
The Grand Finale: We release the kale dust into the wind and call it a day.
No dancing. Dancing is performative joy and I don't trust it.
So yeah… see you soon, my starving little offerings. Hydrate before you come because I'm not providing shit. Bring snacks if you're weak. Bring a chair if you're a coward.
This is my moment. You're just lucky to be in the room.
With radical self-love and zero snacks,
Taylor Best
Your Favorite Unhinged Main Character
CEO of Suffering Aesthetics
Professional Bride of Chaos
Head Judge of the Microthong Olympics
P.S. I've already started a group chat called "Post-Wedding Trauma Processing" where you can all debrief after. It's $50 to join. No refunds. I'll be moderating from my honeymoon. Don't expect sympathy. Expect a link to my merch store.
P.P.S. Uncle Roger is not invited. I have a restraining order. Wait, no, that's not legally binding. But spiritually? Absolutely. The universe knows not to let that man near my rose quartz. He's blocked on every frequency. Don't bring him. I will know. I will feel it in my third eye. And I will make the kale dust aggressive. Also, I heard he has opinions about the microthongs? Not his business. Not his frequency. Stay in your lane, Uncle Roger. I'm protected.
P.P.P.S. There's a betting pool on which groomsman cries first. The odds are currently 3:1 on Derek, the one with the tragic haircut. I've put $500 on him. I believe in you, Derek. You're already halfway there. Just think about your grandmother watching you in a microthong. That'll do it.
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