This past Thursday night was just like any other Thursday night; I was hanging out with my girlfriend while she was folding laundry and I was pretending to work by “searching” for the second sock of a pair that I hid in my pocket so I didn’t have to do any actual work. We were reveling in the fact that Dillon was probably in an emotional tailspin after the amazing hit piece was published about him while watching Rum Tum Tugger dance impeccably in the movie version of Cats (if you haven’t watched it, take four minutes just to admire what it’s like to be on top of the world, or what Dorn wishes he looks like at weddings). Since my two previous columns have been “hilarious” and “gold,” I felt pressure to continue to put out creative work that’s #fire. As an engineer, it’s tough for me to funny and creative, because let’s face it: my life probably has an excitement level below Super Bowl 50 and above Dorn’s bedroom on a Friday night.
In order to come up with better ideas, I turned for help to the subject of my previous columns: my girlfriend. In between her making advances that my old, decrepit body just can’t handle anymore, I tried to probe her (pun unintended) for ideas about interesting things that I could write about. In all honesty, even a dude like Intern Denis (honest question: why is the original article about him showing up late no longer on the site?) could probably write an article while crushing G2s (RIP) about any of the universal undergrad girl things that she does on a regular basis. But apparently I’m just not that creative; I was not born with the God-like writing skills of Will deFries to put out ground shaking content every week, and I wasn’t born with the looks of Dillon so that my shit articles could be published when I put zero work into them and I’m the only manager at Grandex that “requires” a intern. But as my girlfriend was sitting there, legit folding her socks (???), laughing loudly at her own stories about herself that she was telling to herself, I realized something: my girlfriend is as crazy as every other girl out there.
There’s been a lot of talking recently about girls being crazy; it’s been said that there’s no such thing as a girl below a four on the crazy scale, and I’m apt to agree with that. Before I go into the actual crazy that is my girlfriend, I think I should make a disclaimer that she’s actually a mature person. I mean, she’s
probably definitely more mature than I am. She regularly lets me know when I’ve said something stupid, or when it’s not a good idea for me to eat Taco Bell after I’ve been drinking, or how I shouldn’t call myself “Tom Brady,” “Touchdown Tommy,” “TB12,” or any variation on that theme after we get done doing it (or really any time at all). I respect many of the decisions she makes and I generally think she has a pretty good handle on life (except that she hasn’t seen Star Wars, but that’s grounds for a breakup a story for another time).
So as I’m sitting there listening to her cackle about how crazy it was that this one time her chihuahua sat on her back while she was eating breakfast (I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty adorable), it dawned on me: my girlfriend has already started to go a little cuckoo. She surrounds herself with friends who are actually crazy in order to look like she’s the sane one. These are the type of people who are asked to sing the National Anthem at a sporting event but instead sing “God Bless America” (true story, but sorry, I was not allowed access to the video). She actually identifies with the protagonist of TGDAG. Her exact words are “you know, she’s not really a bad person, she’s just a little clueless about some things and insufferable about others. I would def hang out with her.” Funny, I think I used that exact description to describe her when she’s telling me how I should actually believe her when she says she “doesn’t want to do anything big for Valentine’s Day” (don’t worry, I didn’t actually believe her). I figured that in addition to chocolate, cheese, flowers, dinner, and an iPhone charger, watching The Bachelor at 20 was enough (pro tip: it never is).
I asked one of her friends if she was looking for anything super special for her upcoming birthday, and her friend, without skipping a beat, responded with “well, Josh, she wants to you propose.” Needless to say, on a scale of terror from “I can’t my wallet” to “the Patriots are just about to blow another Super Bowl in Arizona,” I was one Malcolm Butler interception away from shitting myself. When she got mad at me a couple months ago (I’m still not entirely sure what for), she texted me “hey, we have to talk,” and then promptly did not text me back for another 6 hours. I had literally zero idea what she was talking about, and I honestly thought there was a bigger chance that she was pregnant than she was mad at me (pro tip: she was mad at me). The nail in the coffin that convinces me of her craziness is her taste in candy: she says her favorite candy are Hot Tamales, with Red Hots coming in at a close second. But let’s be real – there is one thing that cinnamon flavor should be used for: Fireball.
In all seriousness, though, she’s not ridiculously crazy; the things that she does are things that every millennial girl does (see: TGDAG). She goes to the majority of her classes, she keeps a pretty good handle on life, and she gets ridiculously drunk at an appropriate rate (#TwoPinaColadasOneForEachHand). Yet, there’s this underlying “I’m just about to pull a Patrick Bateman and put your body parts in my mini-fridge freezer” look that I sometimes get from her (also known as Rum Tum Tugger’s come hither face). It’s this look that lets me know that she’s just like every other girl out there, ready to go off the crazy deep end at any second. All I can say is that Will would have his hands full dealing with a chick who’s going full crazy. .
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