The vaginaless monologues (2)

Never get married before thirty, at the very least. If you feel ready, believe me, you are not. If you think you love her more than anything else in the world, think twice. Before you commit to someone else, outgrow that man-boy still trying to figure out what this is all about and who that terrified face staring back at him in the mirror is. Don’t lie to her—more so to yourself. Do you think she will not find out one day? Do you think she will not see through you eventually? And are you absolutely sure that, even if she is content with what she is getting now, she will not kick you out of the door once you finally become the man you are supposed to be and she comes to the conclusion that she actually doesn’t like that person? It’s one thing if that only affects you, but it is a whole different story when kids are involved. Not to mention your pocket—hardly deep enough to cover the lawyers’ greed. But if you still decide to jump into those muddy waters, at least make sure you have a well-written, signed, and secured prenup. Maybe one day it will save your skin. Then enjoy your love ride to the very end—its or yours, whichever comes first.

Mind what you sign

Passing couples in love on the street, I get jealous, but I also feel sorry for them.
They do not know yet that what they feel is just chemically induced infatuation,
not much different from inebriation, which distorts their perception of each other.
They are not aware that under the surface lurk reefs on which this brief illusion
will crash eventually, and the only thing that can save their skin is not a signature
on the marriage certificate but a well-prepared prenup.