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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     Some people can find humour in a blog.  Some people cannot.

     Back in 1997 when I wrote about psycho ex-girlfriends, I think I summed it up nicely.  Is she psycho, or “just someone who you feel is, indeed, full of more @#$! than last night’s dinner casserole?”  There were no invisibile mind-control rays in the post.  There were no “read between the lines” misogynistic overtones, either.
     But it is certainly the only post here that I can think would trigger this kind of response (with the expetives deleted).  The weirder part is, it came from someone here in Knoxville!

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     Somehow, I don’t believe you.

     I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, I just wanna make you think about something before you call this woman you were obviously in something with a “psychobitch.”

     Let’s be honest. The whole term “psychobitch” is completely cliché, isn’t it? What does it mean?

     Is this a woman who…

     …has made you very afraid for your life? Did she attempt to stab, shoot, bludgeon or otherwise assault you simply because of the colour of her kitchen wallpaper? Has she created a public scene in front of no less than fifty witnesses, claiming that she hates you, and that if she can’t have you, then nobody else can? Is she pissed off simply because you have a car, and has she screamed about this to everyone she knows? Has she assaulted you in public, screaming at the top of her lungs, in front of no less than twenty people, “You’ve had an attitude with me ever since!” and you have no idea what she’s on about? And continues to scream about your sexual escapades with her, and you’ve honestly never even slept with her?
     Did you once date, well over five years ago, haven’t seen her for at least two years, and somehow she’s miraculously three months pregnant with a child she swears is yours? Has she bashed in the window of your car as it sits in your parking lot, seen by at least ten witnesses, but subsequently claimed that she couldn’t have done it as she was with her psychiatrist? Has she ever sat with you calmly at dinner in a four-star restaurant, stood up, started throwing tabletop items at everyone in the place, screaming at everyone for no apparent reason, sat back down, a calm look about her, and asked you what happened to her silverware?
     Have you ever walked in on her when she has some sod tied spread eagle on a bed, immobilized, she’s on top of him going at it like mad, and, when she notices you’re standing there, proceeds to beat him, all the while screaming bloody murder for you to help her, that she’s being raped? Has she ever run over you with her car, later giving the explanation that she did it simply because she had never done anything like that before? Has she boiled your aquarium? Has she stalked you, years after the fact, leaving little clues in the form of written notes — “I’m watching you, Love, Laura”?

     It’s perfectly normal, often understandable, to feel angry after a break-up. For some, it’s even normal to exaggerate a bit about simple things, blow them out of proportion. But people are ever-more likely these days to use the term “psychobitch” about their ex-whatever just because they feel like it. Never mind that they haven’t actually done anything to them…

     Keep that in mind the next time you think about saying it. And next break-up, try this… have your break-up, maybe fight, maybe not and get over it. Get on with your life.
     Sometimes it’s hard to do that, and one of you might have a little problem letting go… But you really need to start asking yourself the big question before you start going off about them to everyone.

     Is she nuts…?

     …or is this “psychobitch,” as you call her, just someone who you feel is, indeed, full of more shit than last night’s dinner casserole?