Crazy Bitch

“Hey, you're crazy bitch”
-Buckcherry

1:30AM: I received a text from a – to remain masked – ex-boyfriend that read: “Just a psychotic girl and I won’t get lost in your world.” Of what this unknown mud-slinger was unaware – that is until I sent my response – was that I am a ravenous Black Keys fan, fatuously searching for online lyrics. 1:32AM (a yawn and chuckle): “Get your own material.” My favorite middle-of-the-night activity, other than slumbering, is to crush the inflated egos of intoxicated others drunk off their own wit. It is such a rare occurrence for my wit-less self that one must understand the sweet taste of its opportunity; I liked my lips and savored its honeyed flavor.

Some might say that being called “psychotic”, “crazy”, or even the most worthy of social lock up, “insane”, is to only add insult to injury, and especially when the injury it precedes is the word “bitch”. I argue to the contrary, which in case there are those who wonder, is why I am so loose mouthed with my confessions of the psychotic, crazy, and insane. Perhaps I should include a middle of the road disclaimer.

Disclaimer: Only when the target of these insults is female can it be considered a compliment. Men who receive such a label dwell in the creepy sides of the world. What sides are those? – The edges. The world isn’t flat? Yes, it is.

The morning brought a second attempt at a sober offense. 10:00AM: “That kind of lovin’ sends a man right to his grave.” – Thank you dear mother for playing Aerosmith albums on the drive home from after-school care, and for letting me be a latch-key kid. As I lay in my bed alternating thoughts between to-be-done errands and the appeal of a crazy woman, I thought of my blog babies. My trusted friend told me it is egocentric and condescending to call individuals that read my blog, blog babies, and so I, now humbled, bow to you and vow to commit the two words to the grave, buried next to the evil version of myself, who appears after consumption of Vodka. To clarify my point, and for those who call my blogs thesis-less – which they are – I will tell a story of a girl I once knew, past-tense, because this girl, or woman if you prefer, moved to LA to become a porn star. For the sake of privacy I will call her Lily, which for all I know could actually be her porn star name.

Lily was created in the image of a Boticelli woman, curves drawn from flesh that wrapped around a tall outline, spilling over her clothes, in their futile attempt to conceal. Lily was a girl who cut squares from her pseudo-vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirts across the tops of the words; a man’s attention argued over a love of music and his love of breasts. She cut a wide strip from the bottom of each one, her white skin exposed to nag at the fingers of men. Long hair became Lily, she who wore dark hair that flicked the scoop of her lower back, perpetually with a tousled look of having just left the bed. Lily’s face was round, fit for the two cupped hands of a man, wide grey-colored eyes, a cherry stained pout, and arched eyebrows. I wrote descriptions of her while she sat before a vanity mirror, tapping perfume on her wrists, fingering her hair, and scrutinizing her profile with pursed lips, my scrawny limbs sprawled across the bed, scribbling words she evoked.

Lily was what one would call a “crazy bitch”, a possessor of jealous love, a love of physical abuse to lamps, the framed photos, and throw pillows around the house. I watched from my perch in the corner as her hands shoved items from their positions atop dressers, shelves, and nightstands in a fit of rage. Slander was hurled against the walls, bitch, cunt, whore, and slut. She asked of her men to share, but refused to share them with another. She would calmly press redial on the phone while steadily applying a thick line of black eyeliner until his voice would break through the ring, or a forceful hand would push the contents of the mirrored table across the floor. Her affections were inconsistent, love and hate in the span of one hour, and exhaustion at the conclusion of 60 minutes. I lived in her cycle of vicious voicemails and love notes absorbing the little attention she would direct towards me.

Despite, men loved her, one after another, jacket upon jacket across the sofa, shoes over shoes at the door. When the city we lived in ran out of men, Lily moved to LA. I learned that crazy is sexy, and I hear sketches of Lily in my music now.

P.S. “The Fed Play Sugar Daddy” – Can I get some of that?

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