My name is widely known throughout the land for some of the weirdest and worst dating experiences. One of the more legendary in a long line of fucked up dating misadventures involves a cute girl I met on Craigslist a few years ago. I simply call this story “The Crazy Girl Saga”. Grab yourself some snacks and a soda, ‘cuz this is gonna be a long one.
Chapter 1: True Love’s Dawn
Once upon a chilly winter’s morn, I posted a Craigslist ad to relieve myself from a frustrating lack of internet dates. Lo and behold, I received a message from a quite attractive girl who displayed an interest in conversing due to our mutual lack of religious affiliation. After a few messages ‘twixt the both of us, I determined by her horrible grammar (one of my prime qualifiers) that this girl was not much of a romantic prospect, but offered my phone number on a whim.
After over a month of no contact, I received a text from the fair maiden, requesting a movie date that very day. My afternoon was filled with nary an event, so a trip to the cinema on a Saturday afternoon seemed like a delightful suggestion. I jumped in the shower, cleansed myself from the accumulated filth of a vigorous gym session and prepared as best as I could for potential romance. I even brushed my teeth.
While traveling to her humble abode, a mighty red flag was raised high. My phone rang, and I was informed in angry tones that we were going to miss the movie if I didn’t hurry the fuck up! Where the hell was I?!? Fucking move it!!! I told her to cool down, as I was mere minutes from her locale. Despite hearing the “having serious second thoughts about this” alarm ringing in my brain, I decided to follow through with what was already shaping up to be a trainwreck of monumental proportions.
I arrived at her house, noting with pleasant surprise that she was even more attractive than her pictures – short and curvy with black hair and an exotic, indiscernible ethnic background. She climbed into my motorized stagecoach without so much as a smile, seeming strangely concerned that I had driven up in front of her house. She informed me me that we need to make a pit stop before we go to the theatre. I inquired where, to which she replied, “LCDC.”
For those of you unfamiliar with the realm of Northern Colorado, LCDC stands for Larimer County Detention Center, which is longhand for “jail.” Once again questioning my desire to continue with this adventure, I asked Crazy Girl why she required this side quest. She replied that a DUI conviction demands her participation in daily breathalyzer tests. Clearly, this is the kind of princess that needs a knight in shining armor.
After successfully demonstrating her sobriety to the authorities, we continued onward toward Saturday matinée adventure. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm in panic, demanding that we stop again. Where would a lovely and proven-sober princess want to stop, you inquire? Why, the liquor store, of course! After procuring her much-needed supplies (in the form of miniature vodka shooters), we finally entered the theatre.
Chapter 2: The Drunkening
With nearly thirty minutes of stealth shots chased with movie theatre soda under her belt, Crazy Girl began a loud mid-film political diatribe extolling the virtues of Hillary Clinton’s presidential candidacy and the evils of the Republican party. As this was hardly the time or place, I hastily agreed with her rants, attempting to placate drunken ranting in hopes that nearby patrons would ignore her inebriation.
Astoundingly, we made it through the entire movie without being ejected. As we exited the theatre, our drunken princess’ mid-afternoon stumbling attracted the attention of many an elderly couple. I hurried her back into my vehicle, praying to blasphemous elder gods that she could avoid barfing into her popcorn bag. She surprised me once again by requesting a trip to her bank, which was somehow located within Walmart. As I am a consummate asshole and heartily enjoy people watching, I agreed.
We arrived at the promised land. Crazy girl checked her balance and gleefully informed me that her account was brimming with the robust amount of sixteen dollars. She then began an intoxicated stroll through the clothing section, requesting that I purchase various garments for her. I declined, informing her that it’s about time for me to drop her ass off back at the ol’ homestead. She told me she’d decided she heartily enjoys my company and wasn’t ready for the date to end. She suggested that we visit a nearby historical graveyard. My sense of bizarre adventure inspired me to see the events of the day through to the end, so we set off.
The sun was beginning to set as we explored the graveyard, the drunken maiden explaining various anecdotes of local history. Growing increasingly bored with her banter, I did what any virile and bold young gentleman would do – with a hand upon an ass cheek and another ’round her shoulders, I drew her in for a kiss. She stopped suddenly, pushing me away and informing me that I should have nothing to do with her, as her presence inspires nothing but trouble. Then she sweetly informed me that this was the most romantic kiss she’d ever received. Low standards abound.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Crazy Girl suggested one more romantic destination – a nearby river. We headed over and I began exploring the area. I kicked at an object protruding from the sand, laughing aloud at the discovery. Crazy Girl ran to my side, completely unearthing the buried treasure – a full beer! I raised an eyebrow as she somehow used a nearby park bench to MacGuyver the bottle cap open, consuming half the relic in a single gulp. With renewed drunken vigor, she stumbled around the riverbed and regaling me with tales of past abortions, Democratic rallies and her verbally abusive father.
At this point, I’d had enough. The sun had set and we were in danger of being locked in the park by the forest service. I informed Crazy Girl of the impending return to her house, when she panicked and informed me that she couldn’t go home yet. I inquired as to why, and she said she didn’t want to go home to her boyfriend. Boyfriend?!? By the gods! Not that I particularly cared, but the information caused some of her bizarre behavior to suddenly click into place. She pleaded with me not to take her home, offering to rent a movie and go back to my apartment instead.
My roommate (wondering where I’d been all day) delivered a text message inquiring as to my whereabouts. I told him I was in the midst of a very strange date and would be home posthaste. Crazy girl and I drove to the local video rental depository, where the intoxicated princess careened off racks of movies, giving me sloppy kisses and straying into the pornography section. I searched for a suitable film as she wandered out of the building and across the street toward…
… the liquor store.
She returned with a large bottle of gin, taking a substantial pull and draining the neck of the bottle. Gin is a fairly grim alcohol, difficult to drink without the aid of a mixer and certainly not suitable for shots. But hey! It’s hardly the weirdest thing she’d done so far. We got in the car and drove toward my home.
Chapter 3: Love In The Time of Hillary
Upon entering, I discovered that my saint of a roommate had thoroughly cleaned our apartment. I introduced him to the drunken princess. He stared at me with naked disgust, to which I simply shrugged my shoulders. My roommate had made one fatal error in his cleaning, however – an error which Crazy Girl promptly noticed. She made a beeline for the couch, grabbing the latest copy of Newsweek featuring Hillary Clinton on the cover. She flipped to the appropriate page and began joyously screaming the article in our general direction. My roommate made the decision to exit stage right and head for his girlfriend’s house, leaving me and my date alone with but the image of Hillary to guide us.
I started the DVD and relaxed on the bed as she continued reading. I continued ignoring the steady stream of commie bullshit issuing forth from her mouth hole. After over two hours of not shutting the fuck up while I attempted to watch the movie, I told her it was time to get out of my house. She informed me of her desire to stay the night, with the promise to leave first thing in the morning. Tired and lacking the motivation to drive her home, I agreed and set about the task of gathering quilts and pillows for the couch.
She asked me if I had suitable sleeping garments, and before I could answer, she had stripped down to a delightful set of matching frilly purple underwear. I mustered up all the restraint I had, tossing her a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Despite my protests, she climbed into my bed, alternately trying to make out with me and drunkenly weeping over her unfortunate life circumstances. Unable to extract her from my sleeping area without resorting to physical means, I extinguished the light and went to bed.
In the small hours of the morning, I awoke to one of the greatest surprises of my life. I was lying on my back, with the naked beauty of the inebriated princess on top of me, riding me like a warhorse into medieval battle. At once stunned, a bit excited and mildly frightened of whatever STD she probably has, I decided that I might as well enjoy the ride. We banged it out like a champ and retired to bed.
I was violently shaken awake after what seemed like far too little sleep. I glanced at the bedside clock, which read 7 AM. She rolled me over, an angry look in her eye, and delivered some of the most terrifying words a man can hear:
“I can’t believe you took advantage of me like that!”
Emotions quickly rising to a state of panic, I stammered out, “I didn’t do anything! It was all you!” She stared me down for what seemed like an eternity, her features eventually softening into a smile. “Fuck me, right now.”
The command took me a bit by surprise, but I saw my way out of a false rape accusation. I demanded to know if she was sober, to which she agreed. I asked again in blatant words if she wanted to have consensual sex with me. Further agreement. After a few minutes, she yelled at me to stop. I immediately threw on the breaks of further pleasure, making it well-known that I had complied with her wishes. I told her she needed to go home, and this time she agreed. She gathered up her scattered belongings, including the unconsumed half of the gin bottle. We drove to her house, an oddly cheery attitude issuing forth from the Crazy Girl’s person. She asked when our next date would be. Fearing retribution, I quickly painted a smile on my face and promised “Soon!” hoping fervently to never cross paths again.
I saw Crazy Girl at an indie rock show a couple weeks later, where she demanded I buy her drinks while the band signed her boobs. She called me a few days later, extracting me from a party by claiming her boyfriend was beating her. I drove to get her and discovered not a single mark on her body, but several Bud Lights in her purse. She called me five times per day for nearly two months, begging for rides to her breathalyzer tests. Her persistence eventually dwindled off, lacking the necessary transportation to stalk me in person. Ahh, how I miss her…