Chasing the crazies

By Johnny Fuery ⋅ December 27, 2006 ⋅  Print This Post ⋅ Post a comment

I talked to someone from my past today. It was a great conversation — I was both pleased to hear from her and happy to talk for the better part of an hour.

I realized something, though, and it’s been sorta bothering me ever since. I feel totally comfortable with crazy people. (Sorry, hon, you know you are. ‘Sok, I’m crazy too.) I mean, there’s the almost-normal girls (or just friends, for that matter, but girls are easier to bitch about) I’ve dated with whom I’ve held back so much — never telling just how bad it was, or how much I’ve really struggled through. Heck, one of the major ex-GFs actually pushed that knowledge away!

Then there are the nutballs, who might not ever hear the whole story, either, but with whom I’m completely comfortable with. I mean, no matter how much my prototypical psycho chick freaks out, I get it. (Let’s hereafter call her, oh, Lana — I’ve never dated one of those and I’ve been watching lots of Smallville lately. Not to mention the fact that it fits nicely with my overzealous habit of dating ‘L’ names like our friend Clark Kent.) It’s drama, yes, and it’s stressful, yes, but it’s… totally understandable.

Now, now, before you call me psycho too (I am, but wait a minute on that), my penchant for accepting this drama comes with an added bonus — I can be totally sour, totally open, and totally real about my dad without any shock value. The whole “Hitler was a better man” line that I use just doesn’t hold a whole hell of a lot of jaw-dropping power when my Lana responds, “That’s ok, my pops was Mussolini and my mother was Jezebel.” (Not that I’ve ever heard those sweet, sweet words.

The problem is that so few (haven’t met any yet — or, at least, they were so well adjusted that they wouldn’t share, and I lumped them together with all the so-called “normal” women) Lanas are well adjusted. They’re all busy sabotaging their lives instead of channeling their obsessive behaviors into productive things. Like, for instance, working out so long they have to crawl the next day. Or chasing dollars so preeminently that every hobby becomes an opportunity. Remind you of anyone?

But I digress. Drum roll for the question of the day: Is it that I’m really that unique (well, duh), or is it that not being loved/accepted as a child is harder on girls?

Sigh. In the end, it doesn’t work out with the crazy Lana archetype, either. Aside from the fact that they’ve usually dropped out of school and didn’t happen to read a couple of encyclopedias before puberty (like yours truly), the freak-out routine just can’t work loing term. I mean, the first time she freaks out, I can handle it. The 20th time, I have to break up with her. It sucks. But at some point it makes me crazy, too.

Gawd, I sound like Carrie Bradshaw. Kill me now!