We’ve been told about impending Beyoncé-Jay-Z nuptials so many times, it has become the stuff of urban legend. They will wed in the Caribbean with a feast of lobster and $300,000 worth of Beluga caviar! No! They will marry in Paris, where they will drink only Dom Pérignon! Scratch that! The ceremony will take place at the Apartment during a Svedka-vodka promotion! In our dingy apartment building and on the subway and at work and on the treadmill at the gym, we have been fooled into believing the glittery marriage of Beyoncé Knowles to Shawn Carter would take place so many times that we have nothing left to give. And when we think about it, we never really cared in the first place. We were merely manipulated by their coy refusal to discuss their relationship, by the emotional push-pull in the constant lyricizing of their relationship (2003, her: “I got your slippers”; 2007, him: “I don’t think it’s meant to be”). In short: We don’t care that People is reporting that Beyoncé and Jay-Z have gotten a marriage license in Scarsdale, New York. Take that, Beyoncé and Jay-Z. We don’t care if you get married in a club or get married in a tub; in a mall, or not at all. We’re done with you!