His Prologue
Ransom
Some guys believe in mottos.
Plenty of women do too.
People plaster their world with their life’s catchphrase—stick it on their walls, print it on their mugs, ink it on their bodies.
I’m not one of those—the motto plasterers. I don’t have posters in my pad or ink on my skin, and all my mugs come from my little sister, who chooses only the snarkiest of sarcastic slogans.
But I am definitely a mantra guy.
I’ve got mine stored nice and handy up here in my head, accessible at a moment’s notice.
Most are pretty basic—respect your family, put down the toilet seat if you live with a woman, and play your motherfucking heart out every time you hit the ice.
My list of dos and don’ts is longer, but if I hit the two biggies—don’t be a douchebag and do be more chill—I pat myself on the back and feel pretty damn good about myself.
That’s how I lived in my twenties, and those guidelines are why I have the life I want now at thirty. They’ve never let me down.
Except once.
That one time they failed me.
So now my number one, never forget, always follow is this: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
When you’ve allowed yourself to be tricked so cruelly, once you know the sharp, stabbing pain of naivete so deep that it hollows out your heart—you learn your boundaries.
The ones you won’t cross again.
I found my line the hard way, and now I know better.
Love sucks, so save yourself a world of hurt and avoid it at all costs.
Especially if the woman is a friend.
Case closed.
Except I have a sinking feeling I’m about to get fooled again.
So, put that on a mug and drink up.