“I’m going to be drunk at my wedding.”
“Well of course.”
“No, I’m not talking about the reception. I mean, when I’m walking down the isle. I want to be fucked up.”
“Wait? The actually ceremony?”
“I want to be drunk, screaming obscenities and falling on my ass, all in the Catholic Church.”
“Classy.”
“Yeah, my dad already said he wouldn’t walk me down the isle if I was drunk. So I just said I’d hire a dad.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. A black one.”
I don’t really think my parents knew exactly what they were getting into when my mother birthed me. I’m crazy. Like legitimately crazy. Baby sitters wouldn’t babysit me. Parents wouldn’t call me their own.
Blame it on my mother’s drug stage combined with my father’s racing streak, I guess. Who knows honestly, but I do know, I’m crazy.
Even the sperm and egg behind my conception were straight-up crazy.
“Birth control and a condom and you’re still here.”
According to all those birth control commercials that is not supposed to happen. Even my parents only said if you have sex and you don’t use a condom you will get pregnant or die! Or wait was that Mean Girls? Either way, Tina Fey and my mom would not lie to me… I think?
Childhood version crazy; not that much different. Years of wisdom and experience did not seem to delude the craziness only intensify it. Years and years of searching for 666 on my head and nothing. Poor baby sitters, parents never really seemed to be able to keep a steady babysitter for odd some reason.
“What are you drawing?”
“You.”
“What is that red stuff around my neck?”
“Blood.”
Silence.
“I killed you.”
Parents blamed me, but obviously it was just the flakiness of teenage girls. Seriously, death is a common fact. Why did she have to be some damn uptight that picture? It was just a picture. Obviously, I didn’t really kill her. Jesus. That’s what she gets for not letting me watch Bad Boys with my brother anyways. Our maltese bit her leg later too. Not her night.
Adolescent hormoned-version Natalie? Not that crazy, only fat. Fat counter acts crazy. It leaves you boring and awkward for a year, then fat multiplies crazy by like a million and you’re left crazier than ever. Weird. Believe me, I know.
Science and gingers seem like a plausible future for crazy fat girls at 13. If my parents were going to lie about my “sudden” weight gain, then might as well let my crazy lie to myself too.
“I want to marry an Australian red head, and live in Australia and study birds.”
“You want to marry an Australian ginger?”
“And study birds!”
My poor mother. How do you introduce that company?
“Hi, I’m Sharon and this is my…lovely daughter whose main goal in life is to marry a ginger.”
“Well at least she as a great personality right?”
“Absolutely not.”
I’ve literally been crazy my whole life. Like seriously, gingers and birds? Um, no, 13-year old fat version of Natalie, no.
Now, crazy is great in many situations. Crazy is great at parties. She’s blast on road trips. Those stories crazy tells? Hilarious. But no one really dates crazy. People can only take crazy for so long. Nine to five possibly, but 24-7? No.
Self-sabotaged craziness has worked greatly in diverting viewer’s eyes from any horrifyingly embarrassing train-wreck about to ensue. And when I say divert I really mean, make myself look like a dumb ass and slightly easy. My personal favorite self sabotage from being broken-up with my first love via text.
“You’re cool but I think I’m going to get back with my ex.”
“Oh that’s cool. I wasn’t looking for Mr. Right anyways, just Mr. Right now. It’s all good.”
Literally, five minutes later crying hysterically at 3 a.m. in my bathroom so none of my roommates could hear. Some craziness needs to stay behind closed doors.
“What was that noise last night?”
“I think someone killed a cat or something….”
But as much as I complain about my craziness, it’s gotten me places. Like I said people like hanging out with crazy. People want to work with crazy. Chill with crazy. Crazy makes people feel good about themselves. To some crazy is charming.
“I could really go for a white Russian right about now. Not the drink.”
“Well I’ll take a red-headed slut. Not the drink.”
That night ended well. Trust me.
It took a long time for me to realize that I was crazy, actually. All these previous memories just seemed to portray an awkward girl that ended up shooting her mouth off in wrong situations or just really knew how to freak out that stupid baby sitter. It wasn’t until just recently I pieced together the puzzle. It was like some chemical equation: LSD mother + southern father – charm + many “who are you?” exclamations –manners- common sense= kind of legit crazy.
After a while you realize you just don’t give a shit about what other people thing. And once you say fuck you, everyone wants to be your friend.
“WHO ARE YOU?!”
“Your mom.”
