Self

Forget About Nice Girls, I Like My Women Crazy

Photo: DSerov / Shutterstock
woman jumping with her arms up

Look, there has to be something good about being with 'nice girls' when it comes to love/romance (and all the things that make life worth living), but don't ask me what it is. I guess, in a way, I imagine that prim and proper ladies must offer up some kind of steady calm in your life if you end up with one.

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And, chances are, they can soothe your frantic soul with their mellow ways, maybe iron out your nerves with a soft sparrow-y peck on your cheek at the end of a bad day at the office.

Heck, handing your heart over to a good, kind woman is probably the same as falling in love with an aromatherapy candle. It's safe. It's dependable.

You know exactly what you're getting before you even get the thing home, right? Night after night after night, it gives off a tiny glow and infuses your whole pad with a cake smell. And then, sigh, you fall asleep next to it dreaming comfortable dreams where no one gets mad or slapped or cursed out. 

But screw that. I love me some crazy women.

And by crazy, I don't mean crazy. I'm not talking about women who walk around scratching their skin off and chattering to themselves. Not at all. What I'm talking about are girls whose 'craziness' is defined by their absolute mystery. Those sassy street-smart lasses. Those gals with a slight attitude problem all swirled into a shot of hot-blooded swagger.

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Anyway, I once loved a girl like that.

She was something else, just this super beautiful, incredibly intelligent, talented woman who made it her life's purpose to refuse my nonsense at every turn. In fact, she took things to a new level, eventually zeroing in on so many things about me she wanted to change that eventually, she began to smack down the parts of me that weren't nonsense at all!

But look buddy, that's the risk you take when you want to have the chance to make babies with a lightning bolt. You might get zapped sometimes. Heck, she might even kick you to the curb sometimes. Then you have to see what you're made of. I'm still here, I know that much. 

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against cul-de-sac girls. I have nothing against girls who have been raised at the end of every suburban lane and are polite and successful and sweet. Nothing at all. Yet, for unexplainable reasons, I'm not in the least bit into them, either.

When my heart's involved, I seem to hone in on whether or not the object of my desire actually scares me a little. Not serial killer stuff, mind you, but someone who possesses just enough overdrive to steer my heart up a wall with nervous energy. I find it stimulating. But at the same time, a few missteps here and there, and you'll find the whole thing draining as well.

Maybe I'm a masochist.

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But maybe I'm not. Because crazy women are the greatest women. They've risen up from dire circumstances at some point in their life by kicking vulnerability in the balls so many times that they end up walking around wearing invisible suits of armor. I want to melt that armor. I know that I can melt that armor. Well, I haven't yet, but I will someday, I just know it.

And anyway, what kind of love affairs do you think people remember long after the main players are dead? The safe tales when not much happened? Hardly. 

Listen, I make no excuses for any kind of serious pain or suffering or abuse in a relationship. I sincerely don't. Been there/guilty as charged/it sucks/trusts me. But if you happen to fall for the pretty girl who you catch smiling a little as she turns away from you after you call her nuts (because she knows you're right), guard that woman with your whole heart and soul.

Believe me, if you blow it, you may never ever find another beautiful psycho like her in this world.

But then again, after what you've been through, dude, you may not ever want to, either.

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Serge Bielanko is a writer and musician whose work has been published on Babble, Huffington Post, and Mom. me, and Yahoo.

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