Since Tinder burst onto the scene, it seems like every college-aged guy on the family cell phone plan has his own go-to story about going on a date with a girl who seemed to be recently released from an involuntary psychiatric hold. Now, despite its name, the dating game is not a competition, but if it was, I feel like I’d be the firm favorite when it comes to wrangling crazy women.
I’ve never needed Tinder to find myself a woman whose brain chemistry is more Breaking Bad than Big Bang Theory. Once I realized that I had this gift, it was like in The Imitation Game when that autistic Sherlock Holmes dude broke the Nazi code that let them rip all kinds of shit on the German navy. I figured if I could recognize the nutters at first glance, I could avoid them. However, it turned out that the opposite was true: I found myself utterly unable to avoid the kind of girl who would find a straitjacket cozy.
Some were only borderline crazy. They either had standard abandonment issues or crippling physical insecurities. A couple had legitimate substance abuse problems, and they were often found crying in a gutter or trying to do business with the kind of characters who call themselves “Biggie” and lurk outside pizza shops at 3 a.m. There was one, however, whose craziness transcended any kind of a simple label. She was stunning, but aren’t they all? She had blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, and sweater puppies so gargantuan that they should be investigated by animal welfare for overcrowding. I met her out one night and ended up texting her regularly until we decided to grab a drink at a local bar. To say the date didn’t go as planned was an understatement. She finished her first beer whilst I went to the toilet, then proceeded to chug down what was left of mine. Not yet satisfied, my date strolled up to an old man sitting by himself in a dark corner of the bar.
“What are you looking so fucking sad for?” she demanded, one hand on her hip.
“No reason, sweetheart,” replied the lovely old man.
She didn’t respond. Not verbally, at least. Instead, she picked up the pint of Guinness on his table and downed it in one somewhat emasculating gulp.
I dragged her out of the bar after that, deciding in my infinite wisdom to stop at the last open supermarket to grab some beer and take the party back to my place. Bad idea. Before we left the store, she had told more than one person to “get back to their own country” and told an unsuspecting Chinese woman that she looked like the kind of person who would do porn (she did, but that’s beside the point). By the time we had caught the train home, my date had burst into tears and offered to sleep with me to make up for her bad behavior. Of course, that would have been wrong, and as a man of principle, I would never bump uglies with a woman whose behavior had been totally inappropriate, and who also probably should have been in lockup.
I am obviously kidding. We dated off and on for six months before she finally got her shit together and realized the kind of guy who would date a crazy bitch was not the kind of guy she wanted anything to do with. She was quite right, too. Like many other men, I fed off her insanity and the drama that came with it. After it was over, I realized I actually enjoyed getting the abusive phone calls from her when I was having a night out with the boys. I loved it when she would delete me from Facebook over a petty argument, only to add me again forty minutes later. She kept me on my toes and — let’s be real — we all know the crazy ones are the best in bed.
They may not be the girl you dreamed of marrying in between plucking daisies and washing the sand out of your vagina, gentlemen, but you shouldn’t ever disregard the crazy girls. They are the ones who you’ll remember long after they’ve had their meds adjusted..