These days, as I sit on Facebook feeding the delusion that I have a lot of friends, I see all of these people my age getting engaged, or married, and it saddens me: heart, mind, and penis. Which is weird, because those three are almost never on the same page. Normally, my dick and heart fight like self-entitled brats while my brain just tolerates them as necessary byproducts of his existence. My brain’s like “Just leave me alone, don’t break each other, and we’ll be fine.” However, on the issue of marriage, the three of them form a united front.

The traditional debate between married life and single life would have me parroting some sex driven frat boy vernacular about how great it is to be a manwhore. Have no fear, dear reader. I only make brief mention of my genitalia to publicly acknowledge that they have been the source of many a bad decision in my short lifetime, and to discourage the general population from trusting their own. The reckless spread of one’s genetic juices comes with just as high a risk of destroying personal potential as marriage does, but instead of taking care of a full grown person, you’ll be responsible for a much smaller and stupider person; I’ve heard those are much more difficult to keep alive.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to the concept of marriage. I’m opposed to people rushing into a lifetime commitment because they think they should, like it’s the next chapter in some metaphysical field guide on how to live. Instead of making independently informed decisions, they look to the model that society has set up for them: go to college, get a job, get married, have kids, raise kids, retire. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with living that way, as long as that’s what you truly want. It’s just that some people seem so anxious to meet their own self-imposed life obligations that they lock on to the first person with whom they’re compatible and don’t let go, just so they can check one more thing off their to-do list.

Now, before you write me off, know that this particular brand of cynical douchery comes from a place of love. I truly want (most of) you to be happy, so I poke holes in your emotional certainty. If you’re in love, then hell yeah. Just make damn sure that it is real love, because infatuation can be a sneaky fucker. It goes parading around as passion, making you feel deep affection toward your significant other, but blinding you to their inevitable drawbacks. One second, they can do no wrong, and the next, you’re in a screaming match over a few stray pubes on the toilet seat.

Follow your heart, but give your brain ample time to cross-examine. Move in with them for a while. Think on it for half a decade or so, because why wouldn’t you take the time to be absolutely certain? The rest of your life will still be waiting for you when you’re done.