Marriage is stupid.

Let’s look at the facts: 50% of marriages end in divorce. I didn’t research this statistic nor do I care to, but it seems more than reasonable. If going in to something that has a 50/50 chance of failure, what’s the point? I feel the same way about checkers as I do about marriage.

Second point: marriage is stupid. If you love someone, why do you need to throw a giant party and buy a couple of shiny rocks to prove it? Invest in mutual funds and take a trip some place warm. That’s how you celebrate love. Or buy a boat and name it after your significant lover.

“The S.S. Bob Woolsey sank today. All 375 on board perished in the icy waters of the Adriatic Sea. Human error is to blame.”

You may think that my disdain for marriage is deeply rooted in my psyche, that perhaps my parents have divorced and it soured me on the experience. Frankly that’s a little personal and you’re a bastard for prodding me, but since we’re on the subject, no, my parents are not divorced. They have been happily married for twenty five years. They love each other unconditionally and have been nothing but great parents.

Andrew 1, Reader 6.

While marriage is stupid, weddings are not.

Weddings are the opposite of stupid. Weddings are… insightful. (Damn my poorly-lit internal mindchamberthesaurus.)

If you are unfamiliar with weddings (may I also direct you to these simple articles about breathing , Shakespeare and puppies?), I’ll give you a brief run down on what a “wed-ding” is: a wedding is a giant party in which two people come together in marriage (see above). Generally, there are toasts, cake-cutting, and drunken uncles who tell you dirty jokes in the men’s bathroom and then ask if you want to  share a joint and you have to say no even though you really wouldn’t mind getting high but told yourself you’d never do drugs with a relative despite the fact that you know he always has weed and it’s free weed so why not, right?

I excel at weddings. I have been to exactly two. The first, I was eleven. It was my mom’s best friend’s second marriage and I really didn’t do much beyond complain about the shitty cake and fight with my brother.

The second was a fine example of what a borderline alcoholic can do when given a live microphone and seventy-five Americans’ attention. I assume Scott will provide details. I cannot, as I was drunk three days out of four.

As it oft happens in my blog rage, I have come to a moral crossroads. What brash, uninhibited hatred has somehow given way to an understanding, or at least a new view on things.

I hate marriage. I like weddings. You cannot have a wedding without marriage. Well, you could get two dogs together and pretend to get them hitched, but if that’s the kind of excuse you need to crack a case of red wine and do the chicken dance, well you’ve got bigger fucking problems than me, pal.

I’ll probably collapse under society’s pressure and get married, but not anytime soon. When I hit 35, 40, I’ll start to think about settling down. I figure that’s a good age- halfway to death- to choose a mate. But then again, you can always make the arguement that you don’t really know until the right person comes along. The same can be said about pants. I don’t often think about buying pants, but if I pass a pants display and there’s some sort of deal on pants I might hasten to try on a pair or two.

Husband of Yoko Ono and renounded Brit John Lennon said it best: if you love something, set it free.

This blog has been set free.