taking the passive out of passive-aggressive

Tuesday, January 21, 2003

Crazy men love me. I don't mean funny-crazy or handsome-crazy, I mean diagnosable-crazy.

I've known this for years, ever since I was thirteen and schizophrenic men at bus stops started focusing their paranoia on me ("mutter mutter...what's she looking at...") or, as I got a bit older, when I became the frequent victim of flashing. (I never understood why the smallest men were always the flashers--what's to be proud of?) But I figured that as I neared thirty, this quality--whatever it is--would fade, and insane men would begin to leave me alone.

Alas, it's not to be. In the last couple of months, I've met a bug-eyed twenty-something whose claim to fame was being a child prodigy surfer (he showed me a picture! Unfortunately, he was not surfing in the picture but wearing a diaper), who kept making stabbing motions in my direction; a drunken good ol' boy whose neighbors, he claimed, were all after him and had given him that nasty, oozing cut above his eye; and a suave gentleman in a three-piece suit who wanted to marry me and as proof, read me poems about my ebony beauty (btw, I'm rather pale).

I imagine that in the old folks' home, they'll put me in a room next to some insane, drunken old codger who harasses me day and night with his schizzy love/hate for me. I'll complain to the nurses but they won't listen because they think it's cute. And when I tell them this kind of thing has been happening for seventy years, they'll just smile and tell me old mr. so-and-so is harmless.

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