Gone Girl. Matching Crazies.

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“I’m the cunt you married. The only time you liked yourself was when you were trying to be someone this cunt might like. I’m not a quitter, I’m that cunt. I killed for you; who else can say that? You think you’d be happy with a nice Midwestern girl? No way, baby! I’m it.” – Amy

And there it was. Me, realizing part of my problem with relationships; finding them, falling in them, remaining in them, and thinking about them when they end. I love crazy. Not the simple, basic “she knocked on my door crying at 4am” crazy. That would be too boring. I think I love the “she found my mama’s phone number on google and called her to talk wedding plans for a wedding I knew nothing about, then drove to all my exes houses and threw Molotov cocktails through their windows because she hates competition” kinda crazy.

I watched Gone Girl, and sat on the edge of the couch the entire time wondering how Nick Dunne was gonna escape his private Hell. I had thousands of questions and proven wrong assumptions. Questions like, what was Amy doing when she crouched in the corner with the straps around her wrists on camera? Was this cop gonna bust this case open like a virgin on prom night? “This bitch crazy,” I kept repeating. A few times I yelled to the screen, and when I wasn’t yelling I was remembering all the crazy I was ever attracted to.

Amy came home, and I smiled. I imagine in a crowded theater I would have sat surrounded by a crowd of pissed off, disgusted folks who looked at Amy as nothing more than street trash. Me, no. I would have taken her into the house, open-chested* her, put her in that “what was that shit you were talking earlier” position, then sat down to begin planning the rest of our lives. In her crazy, Nick found himself. In his Hell, he found himself. Amy brought out the Nick they both needed. Crazy does this, doesn’t it. Her crazy brought out his crazy.

I’ve been in crazy, and had we opened up about just how crazy that crazy was, I think we could have found the perfect place to love. We avoided that conversation. Perhaps for the best, since in my head, the merging of our crazies, especially with me not really know what my crazy is outside of being an empathic sociopath, could have taken down a civilization.

I want what Amy and Nick has without going through what they had. Like Dexter and Hannah, can’t we post our crazies on a wall someplace at the beginning, or on the bar? I’m just looking for someone with a crazy that matches mine.

Well done, Gillian Flynn.

Notes:

“I hate calling the women ‘bitches,’ but the bitches love it.” – Drake.

Open-Chest: a childhood game of punching your friend hard in the chest when they are least expecting it.

When A Fart Brings Hope.

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I’ve been eating too much for too long. Lazy, after-Christmas me. Stubbly-faced me who wears unattended, unwashed college hoodies and eats hard-baked fish sticks. I’ve eaten too much in the last week, and I’m not understanding why the force of the new hasn’t pushed out the old. With each fart comes hope. I found missile-shaped transparents somethings to stick in a place to bring about change.

I suppose I’m talking about my writing as well. Since October I’ve taken in too much. Nothing’s come out. I need it out. Hope comes when I open the lid of this old Macbook. It’s in the tips of my fingers, every word in my head that should be on a new document. I used to be a writer, and I want to be one again. I have the notes in my phone to prove it. What will emancipate these nuisances?

I’ll write soon, I hope, even if I’m as insecure about those words as I am about wiping my ass with my left hand.

The Friends I’ve Lost.



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We’ll be friends forever, won’t we Pooh?” asked Piglet. “Even longer,” Pooh answered.

The first friend I lost was in 1995. She was 13, and I’m not sure why my mourning was so short. I had no idea who Alphaville was then, but I suppose we shared a belief: die young, or live forever. Leave the party during the set up, but never when the music is playing. And the music is so good right now.

A little while ago I read Calvin’s post about the many great friends he lost in the early 90’s and how hard it was to deal with. I remember thinking of all the great friends I lost in the last few years, hoping for at least a 50 year hiatus.  I remember how sad I was because Calvin and I are a lot alike, and I know if his friends mean the same to him as mine mean to me, he still thinks about them now.

Where is the fairness in great friends dying long before you? Who takes the place of the irreplaceable? I lost a friend today and I’m remembering the insanity she brought to my life to add to what was already there. Us in all the cities, bars, malls, and stores. We were like Thomas Jay and Vada Sultenfuss. What now? What about Piglet and Pooh? What happens when Piglet dies? Part of Pooh must die too.