I’m sitting at Table 12 next to a floral arrangement that looks like it could eat a small child, and honestly? Maybe it should. This wedding is peak human hubris. We spend fifty thousand dollars on white peonies and silk runners just to convince ourselves that we aren’t all just lonely animals screaming into the dark. My husband is off at the bar talking shop with some guy he hasn't seen since undergrad, and I’m stuck here with a woman named Brenda who just asked me what I "do" for a living. I told her I’m a professional snack-getter and negotiator with terrorists under the age of five. She did that little head tilt—the one where people look at you like you’re a three-legged dog. It’s hilarious, really. I’m wearing four-hundred-dollar heels and I’ve never felt more like a servant in my entire life. Humans are so weird about the way we organize our rituals. We get all dressed up in our best costumes to watch two people promise to be the *everything* for each other, while the rest of us sit in the dark and realize we aren’t even the *something* to ourselves anymore. I look at the dance floor and it’s a sea of rhythmic swaying, everyone pretending they aren't thinking about their mortgage or their failing kidneys. I see a couple over there, late sixties, moving like one organism, and I wonder if they’ve actually achieved that 80 percent "known" status or if they’re just two parallel lines that have forgotten they aren't touching. It’s pathetic how much I want to be them and how much I want to set the buffet on fire at the same time. I used to have words. Big, beautiful, pretentious words. I used to read philosophy and argue about ontological truth until 4 AM. Now? My vocabulary has been lobotomized by "Did you go potty?" and "Please don't lick the dog." Sitting here with these polite strangers, I realized I’ve lost the ability to speak Grown Up. I tried to make a joke about the absurdity of the hors d'oeuvres—these tiny little spoons with a single pea on them—and it came out like a stutter. I'm a ghost. No, I'm a *waitress* for my own life. I spend every day facilitating the existence of other people, making sure their socks match and their hearts are full, and meanwhile, my own internal architecture is just... crumbling. Dust and cobwebs. Why do we feel so much GUILT for wanting to be a person again? That’s the joke. I have the "perfect" life. My kids are healthy, my house is clean enough to not get a visit from the health department, and here I am at a lavish party feeling like I’m drowning in six inches of champagne. It’s the sheer *audacity* of the joy in this room that’s killing me. Everyone is so performatively happy. We clap when they cut the cake. We cheer when they kiss. But look at the eyes of the mothers in the room. There’s this flicker—this tiny, frantic Morse code signal that says *get me out of here before I forget my own name entirely.* I keep thinking about the word 'identity' and how it’s basically just a placeholder for whatever bullshit we’ve managed to convince ourselves is true today. I’m a "Mother." I’m a "Wife." Those aren't identities, they're job titles. Who is the person underneath the titles? She’s a stranger. I don't know her anymore. I saw her in the mirror of the ladies' room ten minutes ago and I actually had to do a double-take. Her eyes were vacant. She looked like she was waiting for someone to give her permission to leave. It’s cosmic horror, isn't it? To wake up at thirty-something and realize you’ve become a supporting character in a movie about someone else’s grocery list. The band started playing something slow and sentimental, and the floor just filled up. It’s a mass delusion. We all want to believe that love is this grand, unifying force that fixes the inherent isolation of being human. But looking at these couples, I just see a bunch of people trying to occupy the same space because they’re terrified of the silence. I’m sitting here at this table, literally surrounded by bodies, and I feel like I’m floating in the middle of the Atlantic. I could scream "I am disappearing!" right now and Brenda would probably just ask if I need more water. I’m drinking too much. The savignon blanc is acidic and cheap, despite the gold-leaf menus. I keep laughing to myself, this low, ugly sound, because it’s just so funny that I’m supposed to be grateful. Grateful for the "opportunity" to stay home and lose my mind one laundry load at a time. I want to rip this silk dress off and run into the woods. I want to be something feral. Something that doesn't have to smile at strangers or worry about the nutritional value of a chicken nugget. But instead, I’ll just sit here and wait for the "Electric Slide" to start, because that’s what we do. We dance the steps we’re told to dance. There is no "us." There’s just a collection of "I's" pretending to be a "we" so we don't go insane.