There was a time, in my early days on this site, when I caught a bad rep for constantly bitching about the fireball of insanity that is my ex-girlfriend. Too often, I used the pages of TFM as a sounding board to come to grips with the psychological warfare she put me through. But thanks to the love and support of TFM’s commenters raining a hailstorm of jeers down upon me, I realized that maybe it was time to move on. With your guidance, I was able to dust myself off and turn over a new leaf.
It was time to get back to my roots. First step, deleting the nudes. No need to keep the memory of my temptress alive. From now on, I was going to get my rocks off the old-fashioned way. All it took was one phone call.
You’re probably wondering where this is going. Allow me to go on.
“Listen up, I have very specific instructions. There is a safe under my bed with a four-digit combination lock. The code? 6969. Inside, you will find a September 2007 edition of Good Housekeeping with Martha Stewart on the cover. If you would be so kind as to mail it to me, that would be greatly appreciated. P.S. DO NOT try to open it; the pages are stuck together and it is VERY fragile, as if I’d dunked it in liquid nitrogen. You could probably break it in half with minimal effort. Same goes for any old socks that you may find under there; please just leave those be, though.”
Next up, I had to delete this succubus off of my timeline. Out of sight, out of mind, right? No more posting drunken Snap stories trying to act like I rage. The only good thing that comes out of those are my friends’ snaps of my feeble attempts with the simple caption: “What a Brad!” Don’t get me wrong, I love to stunt on social media — but it needs to be authentic. I’m no longer going to force it in the meantime. That level of petty is beneath the new-and-improved Dent.
Finally, the best way to move on was to find someone new, and loo and behold I did that. This new girl was cute, seemingly normal, and wasn’t constantly threatening to murder me. We could have conversations, with opinions, and she would even… wait for it… AGREE with my viewpoints. It was refreshing — at first. It’s just that something felt off. It seemed as though the constant getting-along was leaving me unfulfilled. It was then that I realized a disturbing truth about myself: it turns out that I actually enjoy the madness crazy chicks bring.
Normal girls are boring as fuck. I would act shitty and this girl would just take it. Catch me texting other girls? Nothing. Skip your birthday dinner with the ‘rents because it’s the same weekend as my fantasy football draft? Not a word. Ruin your sister’s wedding by getting in a VERY MILD altercation with the DJ over his ignoring my request to play more Kid Rock? Total silence. Get mad at me! Accuse me of cheating! Throw household appliances at my head! Don’t just sit there and use your words; words don’t solve shit! Didn’t your parents ever teach you anything? Oh, they were supportive and understanding? Fuck you, Brittany.
It turns out that I live for the drama. It’s what gets me out of bed in the morning. I’m dependent on the thrill of violent outbursts; it gets me fully torqued when the timing’s right. Even Martha Stewart has a wild side to her. Lady in the street, freak in the sheets — who is also capable of insider trading. That’s how it goes, right?
Truthfully, I would rather fake outrage over instability than be bored with sanity. You know what sanity breeds? Contempt. She may be acting calm now, but give it six months and she’ll be showing up to my door with a scroll full of grievances ready to let me have it. Then of course she will expect a rebuttal for each thing, like I fucking remember.
“On September 14th, 2017, I asked if my hair looked good and you replied, ‘Why, is something different?’ Care to explain?”
At least the crazies of the world get that shit out of the way in the moment. Call me a masochist, but I like to argue. Ranting is just as much a part of my daily routine as brushing my teeth or a quick jerk-off sesh. The shit is healthy.
So call me insane, but I’m pledging allegiance to Team Crazy. I now know, in my heart of hearts, that it is the right path for me. So all you girls out there who are proficient in keying cars or have listened to a Taylor Swift album one-too-many times, hit your boy up, because I’m ready to get back at it..