I really hope none of my friends go with the modern, hyphenated last name. Even though it’s the progressive stance on surnames, I tend to think that a breakup in your name could mean a breakup in your marriage.

Anyway, I’m happy for them, but it’s depressing. It gives me a feeling of inadequacy; almost like I’m playing catchup. They’ll tell me about their fiance, “We’ve been living together for four years.” Well, that’s great. Do you still have sex? If the answer isn’t an immediate “yes” coupled with coughing fits of laughter, then they haven’t done it since the last full moon. Humans aren’t wolves. They need to do these things more often than once a month.

So here I am. Single and ready to be jealous of all my soon-to-be married friends. Some people tell me not to be jealous. Others will ask me when I’m getting married. To the latter, I say, “Shut your face.” To the former, I remind them that engaged folks only have sex when the wolves are howling. And I say “folks” because people getting married remind me of my elders if they were to live in Texas, have an accent, a rocking chair, and a sense of cultural deficiency.

I also have friends that are so clearly on the verge of getting engaged. They live together, they eat together, they walk together, they fart together, and they don’t have sex. These are all signs that I will soon be losing another friend to the slimy, bubbly vat of holy matrimony.

Okay, this is going to sound bad. I wish there were a homewrecking service. Not like a wrecking ball truck driven by a coked out Miley Cyrus. I’m talking about a relationship killer. It would essentially be like ghostbusters, but instead of hunting ghosts, I’d prefer they hunt friendship-threatening engagements.

Can you imagine Bill Murray devising a sadistic plan to homewreck your best friend’s engagement? I can. It would basically be a complete reenactment of Caddyshack, but instead of a gopher, Bill would be running down a different sort of vermin.

I doubt Bill is going to come to my rescue and return my best friend to the state he once was. Whatever. My buddy’s getting married. It’s cool. Marriage is cool. Lots of farts and not a lot of sex sounds super fun...

How much do you think Bill Murray would charge me to homewreck?

No, no, no. I can’t do that. Everyone has to grow up sometime. I just don’t get why people choose to grow up in the heart of their 20s. It’s like opening the oven and immediately throwing out a freshly baked pie. Or like going to the gym and, instead of a protein shake, chugging a bottle of vodka afterward. Or like getting accepted to Hogwarts and going to Harvard. Come on people. You could’ve played quidditch for seven years. Fucking quidditch.

Without Bill or Miley, I’m inevitably going to have to stand by and watch my best friend fade into the shadowless dark alley that epitomizes marriage.

But I have a reason to remain a frivolous onlooker. My friend has found happiness. I’m not about to mess that up. Sure, it’s not the way things used to be. And that’s completely fine. I refuse to be the one to put a hyphen between my best bud and his soulmate. I’ll leave that to them.