By Sloane Solomon
It occurred to me recently that I am a beacon for the bizarre, a lighthouse for the loopy, an advocate of alliteration and a magnet for the mad. The last couple of months have proven two things to me. Thing 1: I am afraid that I will never graduate college a la Van Wilder minus the partying and the rock hard abs and a sweet golf cart and a funny Indian sidekick. Thing 2: All men are whiny, insane babies hell bent on ruining my life and making me feel like a real ass face. Let me explain.
I’m three weeks away from being halfway done with my senior year of college and while I would like to be happy about this, two weeks ago I found out that the registrar’s office decided to drop me from my six English classes and enroll me in nothing but plant biology classes. I have nothing against plant biology, but I would have liked to remain in my English classes and avoid the month long run around that has been my attempt to re-enroll in my original classes. Now my school is telling me that, although I have been in class for almost 5 years straight, I am only considered a sophomore according to FACTS.org. Stay tuned for the results of my battle against the Florida school system.
I woke up to a sweet wall post on my Facebook and from there we made plans to see each other the next day.
But let’s get to the stuff you crazy kids care about: my dating life. About a month ago I was lying on my couch when I had the strangest desire to run out and purchase a comfortable bra designed for lounging around the house in a cozy yet seductive manner. I decided the best place to buy this bra would be an American run clothing company that prides itself on molesting its employees and carrying every piece of merchandise in every color of the rainbow—I’m not going to name names. As I was driving through the Grove to purchase said bra I saw a cute boy standing on the corner and made googly eyes in his direction. The next morning I woke up to a sweet wall post on my Facebook and from there we made plans to see each other the next day.
After three days of what I can only describe as the magic of the universe blanketing itself over my judgment, things between me and the boy got serious. So serious that he came over to my house on the fourth day with a laundry basket filled with clothes and decided that he was going to move in. He put his toothbrush in my toothbrush holder, a towel in my bathroom, and his dirty clothes in my hamper. I didn’t know what to do. This boy was going through a really traumatic anniversary of a terrible family tragedy and I didn’t want to add insult to injury but it was just too much. I told him he had to leave and he cried and told me that I was making a huge mistake. But crazy doesn’t just fade out into the background. No, apparently crazy waits at your gate, doesn’t take no for an answer, brings you bizarre gifts centered around junk food. (Seriously, he brought me a wicker basket filled with all my favorite junk foods and topped it with a weird card about Halloween and cookies and how he was always going to be in my life.)
But crazy doesn’t just fade out into the background. No, apparently crazy waits at your gate, doesn’t take no for an answer, brings you bizarre gifts centered around junk food.
But I didn’t want him in my life and he couldn’t really deal with that. I’m not saying I’m the greatest girl in the world, but for some reason, I had this boy fooled that I was the second coming of Christ but with much larger breasts. Fast forward two weeks and he sent me a link to his blog. His blog that was all about me and how much I had hurt him and it included oddly threatening poems about “brown eyes being sent to the bottom of the sea.”
The good news is I’m still alive and I haven’t been skinned and chopped up and made into a coat to be worn by crazy boy. The bad news is I don’t believe in eating junk food or love anymore. I’ve decided that this is the last time I will ever talk about crazy boy because I need to let go of the icky feeling I get when I think about him and he needs to let go of the idea of me being his perfect girl. Because I may be a lot of things, but perfect is definitely not one of them.
Comments? Twitter Us