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Less "girls gone wild," More "girls gone off their meds" - 28 w4m (Philadelphia)
Oh, the allure of the Crazy Girl! When you think of her, your mind probably conjures images of the girl at the bar who drinks too many martinis in order to forget about her parents’ divorce and who makes out with her (female) friends to keep her tab low and the martinis flowing.

Or perhaps you think of your ex, the one who threw a coffee mug and three plates at your head because you didn’t ask how her day was, and then as she was dressing your wounds she burst into tears and declared that she wanted to have your babies and move to the country with you, etc. (edited to leave out the part about all the animals she wanted to acquire for your working farm).

But there’s another kind of Crazy Girl. Not the girl whose every action screams “love me, validate me”; not the girl whose erratic behavior would lead you to keep a knife under your pillow if only you could be certain that she wouldn’t find it and stab you (“How could you possibly think I’m dangerous?!" *stab stab stab*).

What of the Crazy Girl who’s just wildly, achingly depressed?

This kind of Crazy needs companionship and affection too, you know. Sometimes this kind of Crazy is like, “Damn, if I’m going to stay in bed all day, it would be nice to have a dude here with me.” Or, “Perhaps I could leave the house to meet a stranger from the internet; that sounds like just the sort of non-emotionally-reckless thing I could use in my life.”

The thing is, I’m that kind of Crazy…for now. I’ve been playing fast and loose with my brain chemistry for too long though, and experiencing some seriously troubling results, so I’m getting back on the pills that’ll make me reasonably sane.

Which means that my window of Crazy is closing.

We have approximately two weeks before I’m like, “I think I’m ready to work through my self-esteem issues now.” We’ll have to act quickly but I think we can do it; I’ve probably got a few more good post-coital crying jags left, and I’ve managed to condense my entire sad tale of middle-class neurosis and ennui and general existential despair into the time it takes to drink 1.5 vodka-based drinks, so I’ve pretty much already planned our first date.

So. What do you think? Ready to toss aside all those tired stereotypes about Crazy Girls and spend some time with the real (mentally-ill) thing? If nothing else, I promise not to stab you.

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