A Toast To You Poem by Kevin Mireles

So you're announcing your wedding, huh? Hold up, when you mess up,
you don't just slip up; you crash the whole system. No little‑oops for you,
only catastrophic failures. Especially, when it comes to your heart
and uncanny talent for serving up half-truths.
Even divine intervention would throw up at this point!

Does the groom even realize what he's signing up for?
Does he really know the woman he's about to marry?

Let's take a moment to admire your priority pyramid.
An architectural wonder, where the foundation is as unsettling as you.
the penthouse is also as dilapidated as you, but with better lighting,
and somewhere near the emergency exit, is where you find your son
waving for attention between your bank account, your boyfriend,
and that quick Brazilian wax for the same played out Mexican Vacation destination you went with your last 3 ex-boyfriends.

I mean, what romantic hero is swiping right on a life partner who treats motherhood like a side quest. That's not a wife; that's a cautionary tale with highlights. Red flags? Darling, you're hosting a parade on an empty street.
The narcissism is so potent it's getting its own reality show—though honestly, with that attitude? You're less of a Princess and more like a Disney villain
who loses because she stopped to check her reflection in the sword.
Spoiler alert: you ain't that fine. The mirror's just being polite.

Here's a revolutionary concept: try being a mother first. Put your kid at the top of the list instead of treating him like a typo in your autobiography. Until then, you're about as marriage-material as a terms-of-service agreement—technically available, but nobody's making it past the red flags.

You've been lobbying for a ring on your finger since before I even knew your name. Your mother made you believe that ending life single would make you
a failure—not to the world, but to her and, by extension, to yourself.
Ever since that lecture, you've dropped hints after every first date
about the exact cut of diamond you'd like, even carting around
Tiffany's catalogues like a love‑life cheat sheet. The audience nods,
the smile is polite, and when the moment arrives they vanish—
no applause, no encore. Poof, just gone.

Don't try to tell me you've been romancing magicians all along;
the men you've dated have been about as mystical as a spreadsheet.
The 'Mr. Ed' types were perfectly sane, while 'Miss Boo‑Foo' was just you, hopping from one boyfriend to the next because, frankly, the brand of man doesn't matter. Whether it's Bu Fu LeFool or some other gentleman, you'll take the bling, the bachelorette night, and the inevitable blackout that ends with you getting friendly with a random bartender.

Congrats on finding a gullible sap to fall for your well‑rehearsed act.
I feel sorry for him—he's about to discover that his future wife is a plastic‑surgery‑obsessed, vindictive, half‑truth‑spitting, black‑widow
who has zero originality. When the divorce papers finally land, he'll probably think ''Damn, what a waste of time.'