If you were in danger for your life, would you really text message for help?
The British are obsessed with texting — probably to hide their embarrassingly queenie voices. Really now, English accents are sooo pre-Revolutionary War.
But texting for help? You have to press the “1” key like seventeen times to get a dash, how much danger can there really be? Then again, why haven’t you returned my calls to let me know that you’re still alive? You’re too attractive to go missing.
There are only two options: you’re either crazy, or you’re dead.
Does this relationship have a future? Down the crazy road lies a dangerous shower in the Bates Motel; down the other road lies … well … let’s just hope for crazy. Crazy people can be animals in the sack, right? Didn’t you ever see “American Psycho?” Christian Bale naked … almost makes you forget about the part where he drops a chainsaw on a prostitute from seven stories up. When we’re talking Christian Bale caliber …
How crazy is too crazy?
If you’re going to try and date a crazy person, you have to learn a new set of rules; it’s a whole different ballgame.
How to identify and date a crazy person, in four easy steps:
Step Number One: Come to England.
Step Number Two: Search for the most attractive person in the bar. They’re not out of your league, they’re out of their minds. The untouchably sexy are above the traditional laws of sanity that we average people must obey. Some people think good looks enable the gorgeous to glide by on their glam with nothing going on upstairs. I’d argue they’re plenty smart, they’ve just never been taught to be normal; they’ve never learned to be un-crazy. Nobody grimaces when they “accidentally” pee on your laundry; nobody says a word when they throw an unwanted kitten out the fourteenth story window. In fact, nobody looks at them any way but lovingly, adoringly, lustfully. For the uber-hot, everything is permitted, attractive, entertaining. Even the old homeless lady walking her imaginary dog on the sidewalk (on whose head the frightened kitty lands with a thwack) only smiles and brags that her claw-gouged scalp is just one degree removed from the hot one’s attention. The more attractive they are, the more likely they are to be crazy; they’ve never learned to inhibit because they’ve never learned scorn.
Step Number Three: They don’t speak your language, and you can’t learn theirs. Your body will have to do the talking because words mean different things in Crazyland. A sample mating call for your standard British hot homosexual lunatic (in order to protect his privacy, we’ll call our subject Crazy/Dead):
The tune may initially sound quite akin to human English, but don’t be fooled.
Text messages from Crazy/Dead begin with simple overtures: “Hey Mr. Would be cool to meet up sometime, how long ya in London for?” and “Happy Valentine’s Day, handsome.”
But at 3 a.m., the call changes: “So where are you? I’m bored … Wanna meet?”
Apparently, “I was in bed, it was 3 a.m. and I have class on Fridays … but I’d love to hang out this weekend,” is an inappropriate and offensive response in Crazytongue because Crazy/Dead answers with a week of silence. Perhaps the mating dance has ended? But no: Early Monday morning, I wake to discover the following slough of five texts from Crazy/Dead, and the craziness blossoms in full:
(3:23 a.m.): Wanna meet now? Where are you?
(Still 3:23 a.m.): Did ya get my Txt? I wanna seeya. Now.
(3:50 a.m.): Where are you stayin? Will come to ya to sleep if you want …? Please!
(3:59 a.m.): Where are ya? I wanna seeya. Please answer!
(4:07 a.m.): Please reply, im in trouble and need ya. Where ya stayin? I need ya now, will explain later.
Apparently, “I was in bed, it was 3 a.m. and I have class on Mondays … but call me back to let me know you’re alive,” is an inappropriate and offensive response in Crazytongue because Crazy/Dead answers with a week of silence. And another. After several weeks, when friends begin to ask, “Whatever happened to Crazy/Dead?” I can only respond, “I guess he’s actually dead. But such an attractive corpse.”
Rule Number Four: Be warned, before you begin pursuing a Crazy, it’s like a nicotine habit: you can quit, but it’ll always linger. Bad for you, even dangerous, but oh so tempting, it’ll rear its annoying little head when you least expect it. A full three weeks after I’d mentally buried Crazy/Dead (with a little eulogy, and tons of mental flowers and mental tears and the whole shebang), I sit at a bus stop. After an unimpressive night of hip-hop “dancing” with a bunch of my straight friends (I don’t know if you can really call what straight people do dancing), I freeze half-to-death while I gorge myself on a three-pack of 24-hour Tesco Triangle sandwiches. And my pocket buzzes. It’s a text from Crazy/Dead. Of course, it’s 3 a.m. The dance begins:
Crazy/Dead: Hi, How are ya? I just saw a guy who looks just like you at my bus stop. Just on way home from work.
Me: I thought you were dead.
Crazy/Dead: Then it was you! On the bus home. Sorry bout before. Lost my phone in accident. Just to double check, this is Chad? American? Well anyways, goodnight.
Hold up: “In accident?” Either bad grammar for “on accident,” or “accident” is Crazy for “really intense acid trip.” Long series of texts concludes: he’ll call for our long-awaited date when he gets a night off. And of course, we haven’t spoken since.
I met another man at a club the following weekend. I suggested we go to this vegetarian restaurant later in the week. He responded:
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m afraid of fruit.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, It really scares me. Tomatoes too, even though I think they’re actually a vegetable. Somewhere else, though. That coffee shop in Hyde Park?”
“I’m sorry. This conversation is over. Have a nice life.”
Midnight insanity is one thing, but a fruit phobia? That’s just messed up.
Chad Callaghan’s thumbs are always sore after Saturday nights on the town — from texting.