No, I’ll tell you what obsessive is.

     Obsessive is when you sleep, eat and breathe every word out of her mouth.  Obsessive is when you need her like air.  Obsessive is spending every moment, awake or asleep, longing for her.  Obsessive is when you’d eat a plate full of her shit and swear it tasted like roses.

     Love is when you realize what you’re doing and let it go.

     Third time’s the charm.  I am so over it.

     Every now and again, you’ll hear a woman say, “The word ‘bitch’ should be removed from the English language!”  Sometimes I agree, but now and again, you find these incredible witches with capital “B”‘s who underscore the necessity of the word. 
     “Dorothy” (we’ll call her for the purpose of keeping her privacy) is one of those.  More than just witchlike, she was a psycho who couldn’t understand normal thinking.  On second thought, even the c-word might be too tame…

     We met in a bar several years ago.  It was just after midnight, and we’d been having a great conversation.  She was from a state that I used to live in, and we spent quite a while reminiscing the old days.  Old hangouts, old friends (a few of whom we knew in common), old cars and old girlfriends, husbands and wives.
     Eventually, she invited me back to her place to “hang out” for a while.  I went, mind you, but made my motives pretty clear — “Listen, you’re drunk.  I’m not gonna take advantage of that.  You might say it’s not taking advantage, but let’s not do something either of us might regret.  Okay?”
     I’m good like that.  I don’t send mixed signals.

     Unfortunately, once we got back to her place, she was no longer the semi-sober woman she was in the bar and car ride home.  

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     Continuing on the same thread of former psychos, who may or may not continue to be psycho — fortunately, it’s been so long since I’ve seen any of them, I have no idea if they’re still psycho or if they’ve been heavily medicated and rehabilitated — there was another really good one who showed real promise in the Art of Screwing Up Guys Lives.
     It’s going to be a little difficult to write about her given that I’ve promised not to reveal enough information that would make someone easily identifiable.  Unfortunately, in this case it’s difficult, and I’ve debated heavily about writing about her at all.  But the story, oh the story, is just too good.
     We’ll call her “Alexis.”

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     Taking another stroll down the memory lane of past relationships mentioned in the last post, I remembered another really funny one.  We’ll call her “Sybil.”

     Sybil didn’t do much outside of college.  She hung around in the neighborhood talking to people most of the time.  That’s pretty much how we met, and became pretty good friends.
     The “we’re dating” thing came about after one of those uncomfortable conversations that most men try and avoid — all the “We need to talk.  What are we doing?  Where is this going?” bits which establish a plan and timeframe that didn’t need to be established since the obvious answer was, “We’re hanging out and having a good time, why do you have to ruin it with stupid questions?”
     But I digress…

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     The craziness of yesterday had me tripping down memory lane about past relationships.  Fortunately, the trip wasn’t spent trying to remember who she was — that was impossible — but rather remembering a similar situation that happened a long, long time ago.
     Of course, I’m not going to divulge anything personally identifiable.

     Many, many years ago when I was still a young pup, a friend of a friend introduced me to a young woman we’ll call “Chastity,” as a cruel joke, for the sake of the story.  She was a college student, and hung out the same clubs I did, so we hit it off well.

     A week into dating her, a friend of mine was hurt badly in a car accident, and not expected to live.  After visiting him in the hospital, I decided I didn’t want to just go home, so I thought I’d drop by her place for a visit. 
     When I got to her place, the front door was open.

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