As I learned from my grandfather, once people know you like something they will never forget it. Like when I purchased a t-shirt with a unicorn, and it signaled the start of my (actually nonexistent) unicorn fetish. Or when I told people that I use graph paper notebooks, and it became the only gift I received for a decade. Or when I told people I wanted to have a pirate wedding. That was a stupid thing to do. Here’s what happened:
In second year university, I could be found in the University Community Centre not doing much at all. I’d be “at school” to be sure, but not “in class”—a distinction evidenced by my grades. One day, I doodled the costumes for a pirate-themed wedding in my notebook. That’s all.
Those who know me well know I’m not particularly fussed about getting married (I’d rather autopsy myself with a ball-peen hammer) but I am fussed about spectacle. I started working out all the details. The entire bridal party would be clad in pirate gear and have to ‘raid’ the vessel (of course there’s a boat) to begin the ceremony. An elaborate pulley-system would allow me to swoop in on my bride. There would be a plank to cross after having placed our vows. I was thinking of releasing vultures also, but the budget was starting to skyrocket.
I wasn’t shy about explaining this scenario to anyone (who would listen), but for reasons I don’t understand I was subsequently branded a pirate enthusiast. I’m not into pirates. Just because I wanted to get married like a pirate, doesn’t mean I want to be one. (By that logic, do all women want to be materialistic narcissists?)
That’s why someone got me, a grown-ass man, this book. Spoiler alert: Bugs Bunny makes a fool out of Yosemite Sam.