My friends tell me that they’re bad news, my family thinks they’re “interesting,” and my therapist already knows their names. That’s right, I have a penchant for crazy girls.
She is always everything I need, but none of what I want—or everything I want but nothing that I need. Our manias overlap, feeding on the other’s and growing; our vices concatenate and multiplying in frequency. Nietzsche wrote, “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.” That is us. Our hopes and fears line up so perfectly that we go to lauded heights and abysmal lows; our love a drug that leaves us yearning for more and yet secretly praying that we never score it again.
At night, when the waves are high, we stand there at the breakers and let the water crash over us while we yell at the top of our lungs until nothing is left inside. Then embracing, breathe our souls back and forth, and hope to die.
Of course, there is a certain point when the crazy starts to work against her. The moment hygiene suffers, I’m out. The same goes for the third time she gives me a bruise I can’t hide at the office.
Oh well. The next girl to show up at my door in the middle of the night with her passport, $1,300 cash, and nothing packed except a toothbrush and a book of French poetry can have my heart. Go!
— Jeff
Maaaan, you know there is such thing in the web like search engine, http://google.com if you don’t, go there to understand why this post is bullshit
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