I’ve a huge tolerance for aberrant behavior. It must be, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to stomach the people or situations into which I chronically fall. Like a moth to a flame, I gravitate towards people who drop outside the bell curve of normal.
Admittedly, I enjoy their antics, their fights and their enthusiasm – whether it’s their constant rages, joys or hedonistic lifestyles. It’s never a dull moment with these crazy people and I do learn a lot. A lot about current events, fashion, art, music, dance, sculpture and hidden places to hang in New York City which only a selective group knows.
I don’t like to judge them despite the constant references to these people as crazy. After all, I do find them thoroughly irresistible. It could possibly be a result of spending thirty years on Wall Street dealing with crazies of another sort.
The public, at large, believe that all Wall Street bankers are suits making six figures while screwing everyone in the process. The dull reality is that the majority of bankers – commercial and investment – are lowly paid clerks vying for that brass ring. Don’t get me wrong – there’s a lot of screwing around. Usually for that promotion and key to the executive toilet. But I digress.
The crazies on Wall Street who I met and unluckily knew spend their time explaining how bi-polar they really are. Even though they backstab, sell their family down the river, deep inside (as they disclose in their feeble attempts to sway my contempt) they’re not venal; they bleed, they cry, they love their dogs.
They’re fucking psychopaths.
I learned a long time ago to count my fingers after every handshake.
Those aren’t the crazies I enjoy. It’s the ones possessing the brilliant minds with a vision. And inability to relate to people, by and large. Except with me.
Did I happen to mention I’ve a huge tolerance for aberrant behavior?
I’ve come to recognize my appetite for crazies. I thought it had something to do with my former career where I was bored out of my mind. Yet, that career screeched to a halt and I’m still admitting crazies into my life. Even more so on a personal level.
I’m guilty of allowing crazy to park itself on my doorstep, in my house, in my bed and between my legs. The last three relationships show where I fell into the rabbit hole. The first one, a few years ago, accidentally set fire to my house. The second one stalked me, not the fun type of stalking either. And the last one, well, let’s put it like this: a few people who had the misfortune of meeting him said, “Couldn’t you tell the guy was nuts? His eyes rolled up in his head!”
All I could see was the amusement factor. Over a short period of time, that dissipated into dread encounters. I found myself listening ad nauseum to utter madness, meaningless and bizarre, not to mention ultimately bor-ing. That should’ve been the tell; clearly these people forgot to use their meds.
Still, as much as I love my crazies, it boils down to one thing: they’re fucking insane.
And that’s the bottom line.
Sooner or later, whatever they did to other people invariably they’ll do to me. I used to think, “Oh, I’ll be exempt from that bad behavior.” Which was my delusion, especially seeing how they fucked everyone over around me. Now, I think, “How long until they pull that shit on me?”
Yet, I love my crazies. So, what does that say about me?
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PS: I should NEVER have written this post! Sure enough, the very next day, a crazy lady from my past emerged with a twitter account solely to interact with me. Thankfully, someone got her account suspended!
At any rate, yes, I love my crazies, but from afar. "The further you are, the more I'll love you."
This blog and all the posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.