heard all about them since hardly a day goes by that you don't make
some eye-rolling reference to "that crazy bitch" who practically
ruined your life and then went off and married some successful
"douche bag", leaving you to troll local college bars in search of
no-strings-attached ass, while she enjoys quiet weekends at home
with her in-laws in Connecticut. That selfish cunt.
I know that you don't think I could ever be as good of a "psycho
ex" as she was, but, I assure you, I can! I'll be such a raving
lunatic nutcase, you won't even remember her when I'm through
with you. Try me.
For starters: I am great in bed. Isn't that how all the "crazy"
ones start out? You'll meet me at some party through some friend of
a friend of a friend who knows I have "wacko" potential but who
will fail to mention this to the chain of people through whom we
are introduced, because...quite frankly, our friends don't really
care enough about either of us to keep our best interests in mind.
Or, alternatively, they *do* have our best interests in mind, but
know that our dramatic personalities and overwhelming egos are
forces too powerful for even the most friendly, logical advice.
Thus, they abort all attempts to keep us apart and allow us to get
drunk and grope each other publicly, shaking their heads all the
while, because...this shit is gonna blow up big time.
Meanwhile, we'll already be upstairs, half undressed, where you'll
be too drunk to censor yourself so you'll make overly generous
blubbering commentary about how "sexy" I am (as I knock into a
table lamp with swan-like grace).You'll also rave on and on about
how I have the greatest tits you've ever seen, and am "fucking
amazing" on all other fronts (as if I didn't know). Compared to the
four other chicks you've banged, this will be the best sex of your
life. As soon as we're done, you'll start forming a mental list of
which buddies you're going to text message first about this, while
at the same time wondering if you could possibly spend the rest of
your life with me.
In the sobering light of morning, you'll forget that you wanted to
spend the rest of your life with me and instead opt for a "two
night stand", but you'll quickly realize that I am having none of
that and somehow weasel my way into staying over, cooking
breakfast, and reading your newspaper. I will also have
conveniently brought my toothbrush and some sanitary products which
I quickly store in your bathroom cabinets since "I'm going to
be spending a lot of time at your place". Your Maxim magazines will
go from the top of the toilet to the bottom of the wastebasket,
because I find them "offensive" and "immature".
Later that day, you'll log into Facebook and see that I'm "in a
relationship"...with you! YAY! At first, you'll think it's creepy,
but then (due to your inferiority complex), you'll take it as a
compliment and change your relationship status, too.
Within an hour, you'll receive 78 new notifications which
indicate that I've commented on every photo in your album in which
you appear with an unidentified female. Your relationships with
these family members, college friends, and co-workers will quickly
disintegrate as you mistake my obsession for passion and declare
your undying commitment to me and stop returning other people's
Friends will caution you, but you will be too blinded by my
mind-blowing fellatio technique to notice anything. Besides, I've
explained that they're just jealous of our love. Together, our poor
self images will have us each convinced that the other is cheating.
We'll fight about it non stop. All the time.
On our "good days" we'll shower each other with gifts and sexual
favors, and the accusatory banter will be minimal-though still
Things will be going "pretty well" for a while, until one night
your phone battery dies and you fall asleep early - forcing me into
an incoherent panic. Six unreturned voice mails and text
messages will lead me to believe only the worst - you ARE cheating
on me! To confirm my suspicions, I will immediately log into all
your personal accounts (since you are so technologically oblivious,
you left your passwords saved on my computer), and find a message
to be mad about. It will likely be a harmless flirtation from a
platonic friend who lives six states away that pushes me over the
Unable to reach her or you, I will scramble into my car and drive
barefoot to your apartment where I will ride up on the curb,
knocking over an unsuspecting potted plant. The commotion outside
will rouse you from your slumber, and you'll stumble bleary eyed to
the window just in time to see me throw the car into reverse and
plow into your beloved Hyundai Elantra.
In short order, the police will come, I will cry, you will shout,
your landlord will evict you, and your insurance company will drop
you. On the bright side, our names will be forever emblazoned
together on a county police report.
Despite all this, it will take another several months for you to
come to your senses and break up with me. Knowing that I am a
ticking bomb, you will execute this in the kindest, most reasonable
way possible. You will make every effort to lift my spirits by
explaining that "it's not you, it's me", and "I deserve someone
All of this, to no avail. The only way you can truly be rid of me
is to change your phone number and move across the country, where
you'll make new friends and find a new insecure girlfriend to
emotionally abuse for months until she finally reaches her
psychological breaking point and throws a wine glass at you,
storming from the restaurant.
Everyone will be looking at you, dripping in Pinot Noir with an
astonished look on your face. In your head, you'll be thinking,
"Ha. That was nothing. You should see my Huyndai Elantra."
And, that, is why I'll be the best psycho ex-girlfriend you've ever
I like smart guys who haven't got anything to prove. Drop me a line
and maybe I'll overcome my ambivalence and answer you.
Also, according to Meyers-Briggs, I'm an INFJ. Neat.
I am clown, shit, and insane