This is a mashup of something I wrote when bored in my Philosophy class and an idea I had years ago. It’s definitely a first draft – so please leave comments below.
Hope you enjoy!
I met crazy four years ago. We hit it off like most friends – choreographed our own jokes and waltzed across the stages of sentimentality. Once a few jokes were exchanged, we were good friends.
Good friends don’t fall in love.
Good friends love the company, the expected communication, the selfless catalogue of compliments.
I was afraid that crazy didn’t know what love was. Could crazy be cheesy? Jokes are always welcomed, but no laugh is shared until the trails of chuckles end with one another staring at each other, waiting for the next punch-line (or move).
When crazy ran her red acrylics along my neck and pulled me in closer with her other hand, tucked beneath my waistline, I could smell cigarettes. We were so close, I knew she could smell the Spearmint, flat and dry, from the back of my mouth. Her acrylics began to move in a circular motion. Goosebumps broke out on my lower back, shoulder blades, down my arms to my wrists. I exhaled. She smiled and buried her head into my shoulder. I grazed my finger against her bicep. After one touch, patches of goosebumps appeared on her forearm. I made crazy nervous. Crazy made me interested in making her nervous.
Crazy loved me like a best friend. I was afraid that crazy loved me the way I thought she did.
I thought I was a little too anxious; cared way too much. That’s how I had always been.
Good friends don’t fall in love, but best friends can just be friends.
I treated her as a friend, but she loved me anyway. I feared that being friends was code for something else, and she was waiting for me to confess. I wanted to make her happy, so I stuck around. I wished that she’d admit to having psychological issues, it would have made me feel less psychotic.
Yes, psychotic. Not crazy – I was crazy about crazy. Crazy loves crazy; crazy loved me.