Why The Gray Area In Relationships Will Make You Batsh*t Crazy

It’s a good thing I am now dead inside because what I’m about to tell you will pretty much ensure that I’ll spend my life crying to A Walk To Remember and die alone.

Within ten minutes of my first date with Ben*, I was hooked. I left the coffee shop, got in my car, and said “he’s the one.” This is coming from a girl who formerly defended her “fun” with “there’s no such thing as being a slut! Feminism!!” I loved my solitude. I didn’t want or need a relationship to be happy. But this one. This one was a comedian that liked baby animals and played every instrument known to man. MULTIPLE O’s, LADIES, MULTIPLE O’s. I was unequivocally addicted. A few weeks into it, he hit me with a whole list of reasons why he could only keep it casual: crazy work schedule, just got out of a long-term relationship, needed to work on himself (subtext: I like you, but not enough. Thanks for all those BJs though!) “But I’m not saying it can’t happen. I really do like you a lot. Maybe in a month, or two months, or a year, we’ll see what happens.” That was fun. Let’s talk about why that is the biggest crock of bullshit to hit the psychiatric ward.

THREE BJS IN ONE DAY: OH YEAH, TODAY’S THE DAY

Sure, all of his reasons might have been true. But no matter how much it tortured me, I convinced myself that if I could just hang on, give it two more weeks, okay three more weeks, he’d eventually see why we were meant for each other. Yes, this perfect person for me was flaky, only wanted to hang out past 10 PM, and, although he was on his phone tweeting every five minutes, just couldn’t find the time to text me back. But he was perfect. It resulted in a lot of arguments, passive aggression, and the classic “IT’S OVER! Just kidding. I was kidding! I WAS KIDDING!” So eventually, he broke it off.

IN CONCLUSION, TERRORISM CAN BE TRACED BACK TO FRANCO-BRITISH CHICANERY

Every interaction feels like the final audition for a lead role in Orange is the New Black. You’ve got to say all the right things, always look incredible, be funny and witty, show off your intelligence, but also be casual, breezy, and not that available. Congratulations, you’re living a shitty Rom-Com. How can anyone get to know the real you when you’ve perfectly practiced several alternative answers to any topic that may arise. For example, memorizing a Harvard student’s political science paper on foreign policy you found on College Confidential. Or something like that that I heard once from my friend or her brother or something don’t really remember where I heard that but I definitely know it happened I think but not sure ‘cause I don’t know the person directly but I’ll find out his name and let you know.

TIFFANY, YOU KILLED THAT RED DRESS, DRINKS NEXT TUESDAY?

Because they’re still free to date whomever they want, you have no choice but to become the Nancy Drew of social media. You will spend hours torturing yourself over which one of his recently added friends is the other you. You’ll worry that he’ll meet someone else and suddenly his work schedule won’t be all that bad, for her. You’ll do an exegesis on every status update. You’ll obsess over every ‘like,’ every new Instagram follower. I am now personally invested in many people’s lives that have absolutely no idea who I am. Dude, Beth, we get you like trees, but Instagram is not a fucking botany catalogue. And David, love you buddy, so sorry I couldn’t get you a gift for your wedding but I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

RESTRAINING ORDER

When Ben cut the cord, I had an aneurysm. My dad would come over to see if I was still alive and throw Xanax at me from a “safe distance.” I was so heartbroken that I convinced myself if he just saw me again, looking super hot, appearing carefree and doing exciting things, he’d realize he missed me and then ask me to hang out and then I’d say something hilarious and then he’d love me. One time I drove to the Grove because he posted a picture of something funny and I recognized the background. I once spent a full 10 hours sitting at his local Whole Foods because I mean, eventually he’d need some more veggie chips, namsayin’? He never showed. :/ But the cashier, Julio, felt really bad for me so he gave me a great discount on produce. Shoutout to Julio. So down to meet your tía.

I’M LIKE, BUDDHIST NOW. #NAMASTE

Never feeling good enough for someone does a number on your self-esteem. You will doubt how awesome you are, if you are even worthy of love, if you were ever in fact sane and justifiably allowed to be within 20 feet of a school. This non-relationship brought out the absolute devil in me. I turned into someone I never even knew existed. I’m sure I don’t exactly scream “normal,” but I think we can all agree this is some next level shit. Don’t allow someone to be the perfect trigger for your crazy. I became a burden on my friends, terrified to date, insecure, and just really, really sad. It’s not his fault; it’s not my fault. It’s an unfortunate consequence of the perfect storm of crappy circumstances. Sometimes there’s good love, and sometimes there’s bad love. But all love is valuable in some way and other moony phrases people tell you to help make sense of why this happened.

YOU’RE FUCKING NUTS TOO, JEFFREY

Let’s not just chalk this up to “girl crazy.” One guy I know broke into his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and peed in her conditioner. (Save on highlights, amirite?!) One dude dragged his buddy to every restaurant in Santa Monica because he knew she liked Sunday brunch. One guy befriended her ex-boyfriend so he could post pictures of them bro-ing out to piss her off. Talk about commitment. No one on this planet should have this kind of power over you. Do yourself a favor, boys and girls, and reserve your heart for those who don’t need 50 Shades of Grey to figure out how absolutely undeniably batshit in love they are with you.

P.S. None of this is true. You can’t prove shit.

*Name changed to protect myself from him ever seeing this