I’m Addicted To Being Crazy


“You’re crazy, you know that?” a message popped up on my phone. It was from John Phi Delt, or at least that’s how his number was saved in my phone. Is John Phi Delt an idiot? Of course I know that. A slight smile appears on my lips as I spend a few seconds crafting the perfect response: “Yeah, but you love it.”

John Phi Delt isn’t anyone special. We met at a bar downtown when we were both fighting for the bartender’s attention. I had been trying to order a vodka soda for the past ten minutes when he strolled on up the bar and snuck his order of a whiskey coke in. I jokingly told him to wait his fucking turn, and when the bartender came back with his drink, he ordered and paid for mine. We didn’t talk much, but we danced like no one was watching us basically have sex with our clothes on out on the dancefloor.

When my friends told me they were going to another bar, I kindly removed his penis from the slit between my asscheeks and told him I was leaving. I started to walk away and he followed me, asking for my number. I gave it to him and we’ve been sending flirty messages back and forth since.

In the past seven days since we first hung out, John Phi Delt has asked me out approximately four times. Each time I have had some excuse: I have a test (I didn’t), I’m working (I don’t even have a job), I have to bury my hamster (I don’t even have a hamster, this was just funny to me), and this last time I just straight up said “nah, I’m good.” I’ll probably end up hanging out with him eventually, and he’s cute, so I’ll probably sleep with him, too. But not now. Not yet.

You might be wondering, why does he keep coming back? Why doesn’t he just give up? The answer is simple: because I make him. I flirt with him endlessly. I tell him whatever he wants to hear. I send him sexy Snapchats post-workout and post-shower, I keep him wanting more and more and then pulling back. It’s a fun little game, and I take pleasure in my sick ability to keep him wanting me, even though he hasn’t even had me.

But like I said, he isn’t special. I have a complete roster of guys who I play this game with — they all get the same sexy Snapchats, the same flirtatious words, the same empty promises, the same lousy excuses, and they all continue to fall for me. I’ve done my fair share of drugs, and believe me when I say this feeling is better than anything I’ve smoked or snorted. I literally get a high off of the back and forth of making a guy want me.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not a tease. A tease is someone who flirts with guys but never sleeps with them. They get off on the attention — the chase. For me, the game isn’t over when I have sex with a guy. On the contrary, that’s when the real game begins.

After I sleep with a guy, I act like a complete bitch. They’ll text me trying to act all flirty and into me, and I’ll give into it at first, and when they ask what I’m doing at 2 a.m., I’ll say I’m at another guy’s place. They get rightfully pissed off, but I don’t care. They’ll get angry and call me a bitch and I’ll tell them they suck in bed and they aren’t even that cute. I know, I know, I’m psychotic.

But you know why I do it? Because they always come back.

I have this sick addiction: I love driving guys crazy. Scratch that — I love when guys let me drive them crazy. It’s fun. It’s entertaining. It’s psychotic, and maybe so am I, but I love the rush of bringing a guy to his limits and then pulling him back in. I feel powerful when I drive a guy so far away and then somehow get him to talk to me, to hang out with me, to sleep with me again. I love the feeling of him slipping away just far enough away to where he thinks he’s so done with me, and then I reel him back in. It’s like a drug.

One time I spent all night at the bars with a guy named Jason. I think he was absolutely sure he was taking me home that night. He was buying me drinks left and right, he followed me and my friends to every bar, he was all over me. He was so sure of himself, but I wanted to switch things up. Right before 2 a.m., I left the bar with another guy. I didn’t try and sneak out, I actually waved goodbye to Jason and even flashed him a smile as I left. As you could assume, he was less than pleased. He fired off a series of text messages that would make Mother Theresa cry. I didn’t even respond that night. As angry as he was that night, he still answered my text when I asked what he was doing two weeks later.

I’m not playing with guys’ hearts, I’m playing with their minds. I’m unpredictable. Unattainable. Elusive. They couldn’t have me even if they wanted to. All guys want what they can’t have, right? I push them so far away, I make them think they don’t want me, and then Jedi mind trick them right back into my lap.

It’s not that I don’t have feelings. I have feelings, I just don’t think I should waste them on any of the guys I meet in college. I’m having fun. I love the feeling of being wanted and desired. I don’t do this because a guy screwed me over and I’m trying to get back at him. I don’t do this for any other reason other than it’s just fun for me.

If guys didn’t let me do this, then maybe I wouldn’t, but the sad truth is that they do. No matter what I say, what I do, or who I do, they always come back. Hell, maybe they enjoy it too. The back and forth, the infuriating anger, the passionate sex, it’s all so addicting.

I’m not bragging about how easy it is to manipulate guys, because it’s not. It took me years to perfectly hone this twisted craft. Guys don’t let me get away with this because I’m just that hot. I’m not ugly, but I’m no Victoria’s Secret model either. I’m just confusing to them, and I think that’s why guys keep coming back. I’m like a puzzle guys can’t figure out. You’ll never know what my next step is. And I don’t care what they think. I don’t care if a guy calls me crazy. I don’t care if a guy likes me. I don’t care what guys think of me at all. I’m not trying to get any guy to love me and fall in love, I just like having fun.

I’ve fully accepted my status as a psychotic bitch and I take pleasure in making a guys head spin. I’m the one in control, I’m the one calling the shots, and they’re hanging on every last word I say. This lifestyle isn’t for everyone, but at this point in my life, it’s perfect for me. I’m single, I’m free, and I answer to no one.

Except John Phi Delt, because he just texted me back. His response? “I really do. When are you going to let me take you out?”

Let the games begin.

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