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People often ask me, ‘How do I know if this is the one? I think is a stealth way of asking me, ‘How can I avoid the hellish divorce that haunts your memories? Think you got what it takes to write for Cracked. Please type the following code. Hey, why can’t I vote on comments? Cracked only offers comment voting to subscribing members. Subscribers also have access to loads of hidden content.

If we’ve ever made you laugh or think, we now have a way where you can thank and support us! I get dozens of messages from people asking me to elaborate. Not that I’m an expert — it’s more like how you see a guy come screaming out of the woods covered in bees and you ask him where he found the hive, so you can avoid it. Will you please stop sending me pictures of your penis? I think is a stealth way of asking me, “How can I avoid the hellish divorce that haunts your memories? If you try to pet 49 stray cats, and all of them embed their claws in your forearm, you’re going to assume that the 50th will, too.

Even if it’s purring and rubbing all over your ankles, you bury your hands in your pockets and punt that fucker like the winning field goal at the Super Bowl. Since most of us don’t find our “true love” on the first shot, we’re cursed to endure attempt after attempt at connecting with people who we normally wouldn’t allow into the trunk of our car, let alone our personal, emotional space. They build a phony version of themselves to send on dates on their behalf, learning to fake their way through simple smalltalk in hopes of constructing a panties rug at the foot of their bed. The problem is that if you wall yourself off from every single person you meet, the chances of skipping right past the one who is actually compatible with you are near 100 percent. Every woman I dated since my divorce several years ago felt the cold, dead disconnection behind my witty banter.

Everything was just an act. Women were allowed on the porch, but if they wanted to see the living room, they had to look through the windows. This is why meeting on the Internet works so well for some people — they actually find it easier to be open and honest with a faceless person. For other people, they try dating somebody they’ve already become friends with — they were at the party where you accidentally pooped yourself in high school, there’s no need to pretend you’re suave. Or, maybe you just date somebody long enough that those barriers all fall down one by one, against your will. I’ll still never live down the time she saw me without my shirt on. We were just two people who made dick jokes with each other online, with no real plans for hooking up or even flirting for that matter.

Since we didn’t have any of that stuff at stake, we didn’t have to worry about censoring ourselves or using the “date voice. We could be open in the way that friends are when sharing crude jokes — baring disfiguring emotional scars and everything else. We’ve lived together for over two years now, and not once have either of us considered that this might not be the right thing. The point is that you have to get past the stage where the relationship depends entirely on how well you’re hiding your flaws from each other. No, there’s nothing wrong with my nose, why do you ask?

I can’t tell you how many friends I’ve seen fly into jealous fits because their wife had gone out shopping 45 minutes ago, and it normally only takes her 43 minutes. Even after she returns with a car full of groceries and a timestamped receipt, they can just smell the extra dicks on her. I used to be like that. My ex used to work as a bartender at a shitty pub. I’d look down at her low-cut top, and I was absolutely certain that before the end of the night, she’d be nailing some dude right there on top of the bar.

Some nights, I’d make her change outfits. No, you’re not going out wearing fruit again. It used to cause major arguments because my reaction was directly telling her, “I don’t trust you. 120 in tips was showing a little extra cleavage and that it was part of the job, in the same way that this job involves me talking a certain amount about my dick. You’re not born with the ability to trust — as a newborn baby, you screamed your head off the moment Mom left the room, for fear you’d been abandoned. I never had a reason to trust someone in my younger years, so my default position was to assume the worst.

Going out to eat with friends? The other person’s actual track record had nothing to do with it. No, I’m not fucking dudes in front of the kids. It wasn’t until I met Emily that I really felt secure, and it goes back to that openness that I talked about earlier. When someone bares as much dirty laundry as we both have, you don’t really feel that they have any room to hide anything. If she’s shared this much of herself with me, she couldn’t hide something even if she wanted to.