Semi-Legitimate Things To Blame Your Crazy On

Semi-Legitimate Things To Blame Your Crazy On

I don’t know when being a crazy girl became a bad thing. Crazy girls are the most fun. We wouldn’t be crazy if we weren’t confident, because it takes confidences to ask the bartender for a free drink because you “worked up a sweat on the dance floor.” (He gave me water.) Whatever you do, do it with conviction and full commitment. Like Picasso said, “There are only two types of women: goddesses and doormats.” So channel your inner Aphrodite (the sex-crazed, jealous, vain goddess, created as a result of Cronus castrating Uranus and tossing his genitals into the sea), because it’s better to be a badass goddess than let people walk all over you. The only problem is you’re not technically a goddess, so you’ll have to keep making excuses for yourself to keep doing what you do.

The Planets
About three times a year, planets like Mercury appear to be traveling backwards through the Zodiac. This basically means you have an excuse for your plans going awry, for your general confusion, and for calling a boy seven times at 3AM. You woke up on the floor of your room with pizza in your hair? Mercury’s in retrograde. You had a one-sided deep conversation about future plans with that one kid from that one marketing class? Mercury’s in retrograde. You looked into the eyes of your newest prospect (whom you’ve met once) and asked him if he believed in destiny, only to find out he politely excused himself to delete your number from his phone? Well, fuck him, because destiny is real, and Mercury was most certainly in retrograde.

So you see, these planets are fucking things up for us. And what’s a girl to do? Stop living her life, and just camp out with old seasons of The Bachelorette and wine until the universe gets its shit together? Probably. But instead, you can be found in a bar, cracked iPhone in hand like a torch, illuminating your newest antics. But know, it’s not your fault. You’re a mere mortal. You can’t control the planets. They control you.

Recently, I was taking a fitness hiatus for four years (just kidding. Or am I?), I noticed my behavior was more erratic than usual. In a single moment of clarity, I recalled reading that proper exercise produced similar results to psychotherapy. So, what was missing from my life was not Xanax or a more attentive father, but a 30-minute jog on the elliptical. My proclamation that I was transferring, my bar tears, and bitching at my standards board for being such a buzzkill could simply be attributed to a lack of exercise that week/month/semester/year/lifetime.

The rest of the world just saw my hormonal roller coaster as “woman problems,” but really the problem was just a lack of endorphins combined with progesterone withdrawal, and the solution was replying to my text in a timely manner. The next time your friend, girlfriend, sister, or mother is riding the runaway crazy train, you might kindly, subtly, and carefully suggest that she walk instead.

A recent study found that women who drank alcohol had higher estrogen levels than those who abstained. Basically, for the same reason that the late night pizza makes your jeans tight, the estrogen takes longer to be metabolized in the body causing a spike in estrogen, or in crazy depending on who you ask. So remember that one time I stole that girl’s Saint Patrick’s day necklace and ran? Well, me neither. My point is, it wasn’t my fault.

The truth of the matter is, pretty much anything we do will get us labeled with the scarlet “C.” If we say we like a boy, we are clingy and crazy. If we don’t say we like him, we are teases, just playing games. If we stand up for ourselves in a group project that we *ahem* did ourselves, we are crazy AND bossy. In my experience, the boys who stuck around to see all of the things that made us “crazy” also got to learn all the things that made us special. Embrace it, love it, live it ladies, because although we aren’t the “datable” ones now, we are the ones with character and charisma, so bring on all the C-words, and by that, I just mean the one C-word, not the other one, because the truth of the matter is if you’re getting called crazy, you’re doing something right. So excuse me while I go yell at boys who didn’t call me back and text that one boy from physics twelve times too many. I could’ve sworn we had chemistry.

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All things I like to do are made better with wine. I wish I could create a realistic resume of actual experiences I've had throughout my drunken, unpredictable life. If I could, my special skills would include: going out broke and coming back drunk, enduring conversations with boys who don't understand my vocabulary, chugging coffee like it's water, and breaking-and-entering past party houses to find my lost shit.

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