my chemical romance

I don't know what it is, but I come across an inordinate amount of women in this city who are truly fucked in the head. There always seems to be some sort of trauma or disorientation or desperate anxiety. Something that impedes a somewhat normal interaction with people (of the opposite sex, in particular) and life in general. I'm the furthest thing from a mental health expert but perhaps in some instances, medication would be helpful, I guess. Then again, there are those who choose to drink heavily while on their medication and that's just another brand of crazy. (One of these days I'll post about my adventures with the alcoholic chick who once, in a failed suicide attempt, slashed her wrists in the bathroom while we were hanging out at her place. Or maybe not.)

Although not an exclusive breeding ground or habitat for these ladies, I do meet them in bars, of course, "where crazy lives", according to my neighbor Simon. Which is why I've recently decided that if I'm not going home with someone I meet that night, I'm writing them off completely. At least with lowered inhibitions the possibility of getting laid is stronger. (I draw the line at wasted chicks; tipsy is fine, but a heavily drunken stupor is an easy conduit for an accusation of date rape just waiting to happen.) Dealing with them for an extended period of time may be detrimental to my mental health.

This notion of women off their rockers and gobbling down the chemical M&Ms is not just a guy thing: when I've occasionally asked my female buds to fix me up with one of their friends I invariably get "Yeah, ____ is my girl, but she's a mess I don't want you involved with." Yikes. So, what's left? Brunches? Not my scene. Parks? Maybe. House parties? On average, I get invited to those once a year. Back to the bars? But that's where crazy lives, remember?

[sigh] Let me go get a drink...