Sunday, February 12, 2006


"So what happened?"

"She turned out to be crazy."

"How so?"

"She was just fucking crazy."

"What did she do?"

"She just kept calling me and shit. Borderline stalker shit."

I've had this conversation with people more times than I can count. I usually nod in agreement, "Oh, one of those. Those crazy bitches." We've all heard the stories about them. They run rampant through the dating pool, only to reveal their true colors somewhere along the seventh-inning stretch. The remainder of the game is spent ridding yourself of the residual bad taste they leave on your lips. The 15 missed calls at 5AM, voicemails of them sobbing, the emails, the begging, the normal, run-of-the-mill "crazy shit."

Don't get me wrong. It's not always the girls. I've heard the story as frequently from the lips of females as males. "He started parking outside my fucking house, just sitting there. He left me ten text messages a day." Same old shit. I've told the stories as much as I've heard them. It's easy to brush them off. It's easy to label their behavior "abnormal," "freaky," "weird." Crazy.

It's especially easy to forget.

It's easy to forget when you were there. When you were the crazy one. When loneliness paired with that last shot you knew you shouldn't have had got the best of you and you made the phone call you shouldn't have made, sent the email you shouldn't have sent, left the voicemail you shouldn't have left. Pride and reason, numbed by depression and alcohol, lost the fight and impulse took over and you said that thing you knew you shouldn't have said, you asked that question you never ask, you broke the fucking "rules." And the next morning, in the light of day, in the light of sobriety, you know he's out there, "Listen to this shit, look at this shit. I told you, she's fucking crazy."

How many times have I been the crazy one?

Who is crazy? I've heard the extreme stories. The real borderline stalker shit. I've shaken my head, rolled my eyes, thrown my hands up in exasperation, "That's just crazy! Change your number! Run!"

But I've never heard the real stories. No one ever tells the other side. No one ever talks about the moments, the gifts, the plans, the promises, the lies. No one confesses.

"She's just crazy!"


"What do you mean 'why'? Because she's fucked in the head."

"But what did you do?"

"Me? Are you listening to me? She's crazy."

No one speaks for the crazy ones until they are them. And even then, they quickly forget.



Anonymous -b said...

true that, DOUBLE TRUE!

10:30 PM  
Blogger Sportsaholic said...

i like crazy girls. cuz they have crazy sex. except for the crying afterwards, it's awesome.

11:31 PM  

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