"The great love of my life marries today and I am not the groom. I had my chance, a few years ago, but did not realize until too late how fleeting my moment with her was meant to be."
The writer goes on to declare the column a humble gift to the bride, and then lists absolutely nothing about her that does not directly involve his feelings.
This is not a gift. This is a self-serving and entitled piece of pity wanking that hopefully serves as a flashing neon sign for the "one who got away" to never, ever open an email or answer a call from this stalker-in-training again. It's one big The Graduate-wedding-scene-moment with the self-awareness of a bag of rocks.
First: Manic Pixie Dream Girl. She is, shock as this may be, not there to rescue you for life.
Second: Write a sad poem in your journal, not online. Watch 500 Days of Summer. Write vague status updates on Facebook about rain and silver linings and God opening windows. Anything but this. This column is not a romantic gesture; it is a selfish one to draw all attention on you and make her life event part of your grand tragic narrative. Truly celebrating would mean shutting up, writing a thoughtful note to the both of them, and sending something from their Bed, Bath and Beyond registry.
Third: This?
"I want to thank her for being such an inspiration. She did not give in or sell out or become one of those poor women of a certain age in New York who have put their careers ahead of their lives."
Translates as: "Thankfully she was not like those harpies my age who never married me and are successful and make my penis feel small."
Nothing about this is cute or charming and all of it would be better left unsaid.
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