It's one thing for me to play off to my friends or even strangers, Oh yeah, I'm crazy.
And they laugh and I laugh cuz I don't, like, really mean it of course.
I'm just being dramatic for the sake of comedy.
Ha Ha Ha.
That Reese.
She's such a kidder.
But only a minute percentage of people actually know that I'm not kidding.
Sometimes I don't even know what I'm gonna do.
A switch is flipped.
An impulse is followed.
Sometimes it's fabulous and you have great sex with a stranger.
Sometimes it's not as fabulous and you end the night desperately trying to fish out the condom he didn't know fell off inside you.
Being crazy doesn't mean I have a vast pharmaceutical collection on my nightstand nor does it mean I'm unstable.
My crazy is moody.
It's unpredictable.
It's possessive and responsive and demanding.
Me.
NOW.
Right the fuck now.
Come.
I knew exactly what I was gonna wear.
Red.
Dress.
The dress that had such a cult following the girl I visited in Spain had the same one.
This shit was international.
The first time I'd seen the dress had been during the summer.
I saw it and thought, That's it. That's what I'm going to be wearing the first time he sees me.
I had it all planned.
I was going to walk in and be stunning.
Light up the room.
All heads would turn to look.
Of course they sold out of my size (damn cult following) and I grew impatient and I ended up wearing a different dress.
That dress had been the last one he'd seen me in the night he had to feel me in his car so the effect was similar.
It did the trick.
Eventually I grew impatient and just ordered the dress in a smaller size because I'm sure it would be fine.
And you know the great thing about being incredibly buxom?
Nothing ever fucking fits.
Because my breasts are always in the way.
Fuck you, dress. Now what am I gonna do?
Fortunately for me fate knew how to fix it.
I connected with a girl who lived in Spain and we decided we should meet.
And she just happened to have my same red dress in the size I needed.
And as it turned out, she needed the size I had.
The purpose of Spain really was to reunite the perfect dress in the perfect size for each of us. Everything else was fucking sprinkles on the cupcakes.
I had actually never worn it since my return home.
No real reason just--
Well.
No real reason to.
When something is that special to you, that significant and meaningful, it's hard to want to throw it on for just any old night.
The dress needs to be living a story.
So the man I was to meet was my match.
That's how my Bestie phrases it.
I've met my match.
Which in the wrong context makes it sound like I found the one and you're thinking Awe, what a doll!
No.
She doesn't mean that.
She means, Holy fuck, Reese. There is actually a male version of you in existence. He's just as crazy as you which means we have no idea what the fuck he'll do because you've met your fucking match and that's a scary, incredible, overwhelmingly horrifying and wonderful thing.
I'm paraphrasing obviously. My Bestie never says fuck that much.
So I got there and he was already there.
Sitting right where I'd hoped he'd be.
In the spot where the man I'd originally bought the dress for sat the last time he'd adored me.
I couldn't have written a better poetic ending if I'd tried.
Crazy people always have meaning behind everything they do so when I walked up and saw which glasses he was wearing I knew they were for me.
And I was nervous and I saw he was too.
And he acted strangely because of it and I did a poor job of hiding my annoyance because he was acting so strangely.
And I wished we were in an episode of Mad Men so I could pull out a cigarette right there and start smoking it to steady my nerves.
And we both knew the whole conversation was feigned and we were both somewhere else observing each other while we appeared to be engaged.
And I finally leaned in real close and said, Are you ok?
Which was my demure way of really saying, What the fuck are you doing?
And he responded by saying, Yes, that was a weird question.
Which was his charming way of saying, I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.
And that's the thing about crazy.
It understands.
It's intuitive and hyper aware.
At least our brand of crazy was.
I loved and hated that about us.
And it was a full moon.
The "mourning moon."
The last light before the darkness of winter.
Illuminating the darkest moments of the past year so as to visit them one last time before turning away.
Like some perfect timing in our perfect fucked up story.
And it was perfect.
As endings are when you're no longer fighting Timing and her incessant persistence.
Never was I more certain and uncertain.
More joyful and full of despair.
More accepting and knowing that our goodbye would never be the way a goodbye was written to be.
And I took comfort in that.
I took comfort in a lot of things.
Like the moon.
The inconstant moon.
Ever changing.
But always returning.
As is written in the stars.
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