Memoirs of a Crazy Bitch

Well, there you have it, the title says it all. How many times in life have I heard those words? Crazy and Bitch, that is. Two of the most generic and unoriginal words in the English language. Individually, they can be meant to hurt, but sometimes terms of endearment. You know, like "you're so crazy, Girl!" or "You bitch! Why haven't you called me?" But in conjunction (crazy bitch), you can rest assured that they almost 100% of the time come out of the mouth a man that has no better way to explain the behavior of a woman who he has mistreated and abused, emotionally or physically.

Have YOU ever noticed or even taken part in the dialogue of this particular conversation? Say you're sitting at the local hole-in-the-wall bar or casually enjoying your grilled chicken and swiss club at Ruby Tuesday's. Either you overhear or are on the receiving end (hopefully, you're not the speaker)of something like this: "Man, I don't know what her fuckin' problem is. She just started throwin' shit and screamin' and telling me she hates me....I knew she was a fuckin' psycho." Evidently, if you are of the female genus, if you become extremely angry about anything, you are hereby mentally ill. I'll just go ahead and tell you what everyone already knows. You are not allowed the luxury of rage or anger to ease your hurt feelings if you are a woman. You're not angry. You're a fucking lunatic. Much in the same way that it is not acceptable for us to satisfy our biological urges or enjoy casual sex with no strings attached without being known as a slut or a whore. Man gets laid a lot = stud, pimp. Man shoves his fist through a wall and throws a refrigerator out the back door of your third story apartment = angry, not psychotic.

I'm sure you've heard that new song "Crazy Bitch". This is a big reflection of the complex male psyche at work. Now, even if you are a C.B., you CAN be tolerated if you can suck the chrome off of a trailer hitch, love dick in your ass, or fuck like you're a professional bull rider. I'm sorry to say, this is the only exception. But I can't promise that you won't have the label of "freak" or "slut" on top of C.B.

My favorite part of the conversations that refer to the emotionally challenged female, is the insinuation that her schizophrenic antics were entirely unprovoked (see above). Usually, it has this ring to it: "I don't know what happened. I didn't do anything, she just freaked." I know that this happens to me a lot. Often I am sitting deep in thought, bored with my ideas, and I hear the sound of a male voice...and it just triggers some sort of chemically imbalanced neurological response in me that makes me want to destroy his belongings and see what his intestines look like via kitchen scissors. Relax, people. Sarcasm can be hard to convey through Arial font at times. I can't possibly believe that men really feel this way, that women turn into Glenn Close for no real good reason. Part of me knows that they know better, that this silly explanation is nothing more than a defense mechanism to shift blame away from themselves, and then part of me feels compelled to throw my dime-store psychology around. And I love metaphors and analogies, so here we go.

Say you have a dog. Your dog is relatively good natured, even sweet at times. Your dog is, for the most part, reliable and faithful. You know the dog will be there when you get home every day. Maybe you don't spend as much time with the dog as you should. You don't take the dog outside as much as you change your socks. In response, the dog takes a big shit in the middle of the living room floor. What is the correct response?

a) Beat the shit out of it. Everyone knows that there's nothing a good ass beating can't resolve.

b) Clean up the poop, firmly reminding the dog that this is unacceptable behavior, and make an effort to pay more attention to him.

c) Get rid of the motherfucker. He's obviously lost his mind, and you can't afford to keep having the carpet cleaned.

If you are a typical man, then you probably said a or c. Obviously, through no fault of your own of course, this dog is just an asshole, ungrateful of the home that you provide it and the time you have to spend doing so. You're a grown man with a job, damn it, and that entitles you to come home when you damn well please and do what you damn well please. And if he was a really good dog, he would train himself to use the toilet, since he will not understand that you simply can't be expected to cater to his biological functions at his whim. Why is he trying to sabotage you anyway?

Contrary to popular belief, women typically do not make a huge deal about things they have a problem with, such as lack of intimacy or romance in their lives. We sometimes mention that we would like to have more of this and that, or less of this and that. This is known as griping, bitching, and complaining. If you mention or ask about anything more than once, this is known as nagging, hounding, and driving him fucking nuts. Time for analogy number two.

You go to your favorite take-out place for lunch. It's really not that busy, which is great. No waiting. More time to spend on just you. You approach the counter and the young man behind it with the blank expression and the paper hat. You look at his name tag and see that his name is Joel.

YOU: Hello Joel, could I get a number three with no cheese and extra pickles?

JOEL: would you like to super size that?

YOU: (smiles) No, thank you.

JOEL: (yelling to the kitchen) THAT'S A NUMBER 2 WITH EXTRA CHEESE AND NO LETTUCE!!

YOU: (still smiling) Actually, Joel, what I said was a number THREE, with NO cheese and EXTRA PICKLES.

JOEL: (looking distant and reentering your order) Oh, ok. So you want a number 3, with no cheese and no pickles?

YOU: (not smiling) Number three...no cheese...EXTRA pickles.

JOEL: Alright ma'am. And what would you like to drink with that?

YOU: Iced tea.

JOEL: Hi-C? Ok, great...will that be slammin' strawberry or tropical orange?

YOU: (very annoyed and wishing Joel would die, but still retaining your composure) ICED...TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAA.......

JOEL: Oh, my bad! Just have a seat ma'am and I'll be right out with your order.

*27 minutes later, and your blood pressure has gone up 30 points, your blood sugar is dangerously low, and you have developed a facial twitch*

JOEL: (approaching with a tray and various items scattered upon it) Here you go ma'am. Here's your number three with extra cheese, no pickles and heavy mustard and a slammin' strawberry Hi-C.

YOU: ( well passed any point of composure, control, or civilization) YOU STUPID, INSIGNIFICANT, ASS BAG!!! (throwing the slammin' strawberry Hi-C in Joel's face, and his shocked, wide-eyed expression and the sound of him trying to breathe gives you an almost orgasmic gratification) ARE YOU HARD OF HEARING OR JUST FUCKING RETARDED? HOW GODDAMN HARD IS IT TO GET ME A SANDWICH WITH NO FUCKING CHEESE AND EXTRA FUCKING PICKLES, AND A FUCKING ICED TEA, WHICH IS A BEVERAGE BREWED FROM LEAVES, NOT THIS SUGAR LADEN, RED DYE NO. 5 CONCOCTION THAT YOU INSIST ON RAMMING DOWN MY THROAT!!! FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU, I HATE HI-C AND PICKLES TOO. I HATE THE NUMBER THREE!! I HATE IT SO MUCH, BECAUSE OF YOU, THAT I'M GETTING MY FUCKING PHONE NUMBER CHANGED BECAUSE THERE'S A FUCKING THREE IN IT!!! MY LUNCH BREAK WAS OVER 15 MINUTES AGO AND NOW I'M LATE FOR WORK AND I'LL PROBABLY GET FIRED BECAUSE OF YOU, YOU FUCKING ZIT-FACED PAPER HAT WEARING PRICK! FUCK YOU JOEL!!! FUCK YOU....(with that, you gracefully vacate the premises.)

Ok, let's take a look at this situation. Very common. A little over the top but still very much within the realm of understandable. Joel is obviously an idiot who doesn't listen very well and has no business working in a customer service environment or any other job that requires interaction with other humans. "You" were very patient and forthcoming in your requests and did your very best not to end Joel's miserable, worthless, little life and still ended up taking about 5 years off of your life, developing the beginnings of a blood clot deep within the recesses of your brain, probably losing your job, and to top it all off, you still haven't eaten since last night. But you walked away without committing a felony. Very commendable, in my opinion. The horribly sad but probable ending to this story is that Joel, later that day, is probably sitting around a homemade bong with several of his dirty, loser friends talking about how this psycho-bitch came into his work earlier and went ballistic on him for no reason and threw a drink in his face.

The point is, most people don't like to "bitch". Every time I have to bitch about one thing in particular is just one more step towards what I know will inevitably one day be a fatal aneurysm. This boils down to the basic human predisposition of not liking to repeat yourself. Hey, the world is overpopulated and all the trees are coming down like acid rain in Mexico City. Who wants to waste O2 by repeating the same shit and asking the same thing all the time, above and beyond the fact that is tends to be a little infuriating after the 7th or 8th time.

And here's a thought, guys! Women are stupidly known as the "weaker sex". Maybe this is what causes them to act in ways which are foreign to you when they are upset. Unfortunately, we have vaginas and are not interested in having a big dick contest with you when we are mad. The usual male response to anger is kicking someone or something's ass. Well, if we as women cannot kick YOUR ass, we will kick the ass of something dear to you, like your car's new paint job or your ego, or your denim concert jacket that was autographed by Eddie Van Halen. We are simply playing the cards we were dealt. If all else fails, something as trite and silly as making a statement about your dick being too small is usually pretty effective.

In conclusion, guys...If you genuinely believe we're crazy, it's probably not a very good idea to play with fire, if you know what I mean. Nothing says "intelligence" like poking a mad, rabid dog with a stick to see what it's going to do. And crazy people do not have a sense of logic, so there is no point in arguing with them either. The best way to deal with nutballs is simply to pacify them and agree with their demands, and pray to God that the voices in their head don't tell them that you would look really sexy tied to the bed with piano wire in an adult diaper full of oven cleaner. And ladies, don't get mad about "Crazy Bitch". Consider the source. If he can't love the devil in you as much as the angel, to hell with him.

Besides, women have tens of thousands more nerve endings in the sexual organs than a man, our orgasms last 3 times as long, not to mention we can have more than one in a single session (with a decent partner), and our pain thresholds are 5-9 times higher. So, what makes us the weaker sex again?