Crazy as the Day is Long 1.0

The funny thing about being crazy is that it makes you interesting. There is harmless crazy and harmful crazy and I love me some harmless crazy. Though the “less” part may be debatable, I love Nancy Grace because she is what I believe to be, a harmless crazy.

Soothe me with your lovely voice, Nancy. Soothe me.

(If you kill yourself based upon a 15 second interview with Nancy Grace…then I have to believe something else in your life has gone horribly wrong.)

I’m crazy. I’m okay with it. I think everybody sort of is. Or, at least, everybody I would ever want to spend any amount of time with. The crazy is what keeps things interesting, and funny, and by golly, keeps me on the edge of my seat.

This is a poster I have above my bed. No. It isn't. I'm not a fucking loser. Who made this and why do they hate life so much, that they would subject their fellow humans to a fucking panda kicking us in the face with this horrible message?!? This is only appropriate to be sold in gift shops at insane asylums. Seriously. For real.

The older I get, the more types of crazy I see.

Personally, I don’t do “anger-crazy.”  I don’t yell. I don’t slam doors. I have never raised my voice to any boyfriend I have ever had. (And if any of them stumble across this, they will verify that….or else). I just don’t get crazy-angry. I don’t see a point in yelling, and on a purely psychological and physical level, I don’t get angry like that. (except at kittens. watch yourselves…baby cats.) (just kidding, guys.)

While I wrote this post, I ate two orders of this. Crazy bread is my muse. Along with cheesecake, guacamole, and Alf.

But I’m food-crazy. Oh, how I’m food-crazy. Aside from my very obvious unhealthy relationship with food, that alternates between rapist-victim, to mother-child, to ex-boyfriend-with-a-new-hot-fiance-and-old-girlfriend-who-has-a-major-breakout-happening-at-this-mutual-friend’s-holiday-party.

I figured since nobody ever reads this blog..."fuck it" I'm just gonna post a pic of my tummy. Took 8 hours and 300.00 bucks to do that, guys. Worth. Every. Penny. They don't call me "Chicken & Biscuits" for nothin'

It is a complicated and disgusting relationship that all too often involves 6 trips to the grocery store a week, binge eating blue corn chips dipped in pesto, and then crying in the shower afterwards. Jealous? Yeah you are. Turned on? You’re fucking gross. Get out of here.

Why is Little Ceasars trying to make mental illness fun again? Let it go, Ceasar Pequeno. Let it go. But keep the dipping sauces.

So speaking of grocery stores-here we go. The crazy.

I lived in a dorm freshman year at Arizona. I had no cell phone, as I have previously mentioned, and so we had a nice land line phone with a great answering machine. Jealous? Yeah you are.

The dorm assigned us a phone number. For Christmas, freshman year, I received a cell phone from my dad. Hooray! No more land line.

But I had started over in Arizona, and as my only phone number, I had given the land line number out to a million places.

Like Safeway. To hook up my Safeway club card.

I have little to add to this gem. But...offer accepted.

Everybody knows Safeway club cards are altruistic measures taken by grocery stores to ensure their very loved customers are getting the absolute best discounts available and not over-paying for groceries.

Just kidding. Its a way to ensnare, track, and hunt you until you are so exhausted from playing their  “this is 9 cents less with a plastic card” game that you curl into a ball below a palm tree and pray for a swift death. Death comes, and you are mummified in long receipts and your body turns into garlic salt. This is all true. I saw it once.

Fuck. I'm hungry.

So when I moved, I still had the one number connected to my Safeway club card. I never carried the actual card around…I’m not a plebian, for Christs sakes.

But I always used that number. Safeway cashiers would always say, at the end of our interaction “Thank you Ms. _______, have a lovely day”

But whomever had gotten that number after me had switched over her name.

Her name was Amy Bernal. To be precise.

So for years, they’d say “Thank you, Ms. Bernal, have a lovely day.”

Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nall. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nail. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nawl.

One day. A full four years after I got a new number and never changed over my Safeway card, I was checking out of Safeway, and the cashier said “Thank you, Ms. Burr…nail?” and before I even realized it, I said in a authoritative voice “Its Burr-nawl” and corrected her pronunciation of a last name I don’t even have.

I caught myself and stopped breathing. Realizing just how deep I had gone down a crazy hole.

I had assumed somebody’s Safeway identity and had the audacity to correct a cashier on my fake name.

I lived in Arizona for 5 years after I got rid of that original phone number. I never did get a new Safeway card. I lived as Amy Bernal, buying oatmeal and produce under an assumed identity for years before I left. So, wherever you are, Ms. Bernal, however you say your name…I apologize for being absolutely insane and boosting your coupon output, but probably lucky for you—I’m a harmless crazy.

😉

Marry me. I thank God you exist, good sir.

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Warning: Everybody Here is Crazy Pt. 1

This post will be the beginning of what I believe will be a beautiful series of short stories. That series will be called “I survived Arizona, where every thing and everybody is fucking insane and racist and scary and stupid and there is a lot of sand.”
Or- in the shortened version, it will feature the “Arizona Crazy” tag, and the “Como Que?” category.

So, to make a brief introduction to my 6 years in Tucson, Arizona-

I went there for my undergraduate education.

I received monetary incentives to attend.

I visited for two days before accepting.

I wanted to get out of the midwest and far far far from my family.

After school, I moved in with my then-boyfriend.

Because of him, and the economy, I took the first job I was offered and worked for 2 additional years.

I purchased furniture, trips, a dog, a great bike, and a lot of food and makeup to fill the enormous void in my life.

That void was called “any emotion other than depression.

I decided to go back to school-and I escaped to the north in the dead of night. This is exactly how the slaves must have felt.

* * * * * * *

So lets begin-

To set the scene- this is the first forty minutes I was in Tuscon, Arizona. A forty minutes that would literally set the tone for the next 6 years of my life.

 

You may think-that if you got that message-LOUD AND CLEAR….

Note RV full of crazies.

That you’d heed the warnings, and turn around and go back to where you came from.

But we can’t all be that intelligent- and so just to clarify a couple of important points:

1. I had no cell phone during this time. 

2. I had never flown into Tucson “Int’l” before this. I also had no idea of how Tucson “worked.”

So here I am- 18 years old and traveling to school out of state on my own for the first time ever!

I went by myself, as nobody from my family could go with me- and because of ticket scarcity, I ended up being slated to arrive in Tucson at about 1:30am the day before I was officially supposed to check into my dorm.

I emailed the school, and was promised that they’d have a human being waiting at my dorm for me- even at around 2am which was when I estimated I’d arrive. I’d be shown to my new room-and would be able to check in the next morning when everybody else did.

Great! I thought– this is a crazy adventure that will be scary but awesome too!

So I boarded my plane after a lot of tears- and I flew off to Tucson Arizona-land of milk and honey*, with like six full suitcases full of stuff. This was of course,  before the economy tanked and we could assume that paying 400.00 to fly uncomfortably one way to a shit-hole entitled us to fucking CHECK SOME SHIT FOR FREE.

Oh-everything is grounded and closed? Must be a holiday weekend.

So I land in Tucson- and I get all of my bags, and something is…off. It is 1:30am-but I am literally one of four people in the entire “international” airport. One other person was on my connecting flight-one person is mopping a floor and one person is homeless asleep on the baggage claim. ( I claimed him- and he makes a mean pancetta mac&cheese. He also talks to fences. #tradeoffs)

I had an uncomfortable feeling about the total lack of humans, but I gathered my things and went outside to look for a cab. It was easy to find one…as there was only one. Only one cab.

This is actually the exact cab I entered. I recognize the plates.

 

So I pull all my stuff to the cab, and the driver jumps out  and helps me-asks where I’m going, I say the University.

He starts loading my bags, and I open the back seat. It was a van cab- so the seats are higher, and I go to step in-and there is a wallet sitting on the seat. Oops.

So he hops in the cab and before he even starts the car, I say:

“Oh, hey there is a wallet back here, somebody must have lef—”

“Oh. Give me it. Give me it right now. Oh. I know who left it. My last customer. What a fucking chink. I mean-okay-I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t–but this fucking chink. What a fucking bitch.”

I’m silent

“Okay! So-the university! Great. Here for school? That’s great. I’m trying to remember where the University is…”

Note: if you live in Tucson and cannot find the University of Arizona, it is tantamount to living in Orlando and claiming you forgot where DisneyWorld is. Its everywhere. It is the fucking anchor of Tucson.

At this point, we are on a road and out of nowhere-he whips around and starts manically beeping his horn.

Try roughly 2190 days in Horrorland.

He screams at me “More pretty girls in Tucson!!!! woooooooooooooottttt! WhoooooHooooooo!!!!!”

Um.

At this point I’m hoping I survive this taxi ride. I’m hoping even more that my virginity (waiting for marriage) survives this taxi ride. I’m also hoping he turns around and watches the road, stops honking and doesn’t think my skin would look good as a suit.

He begins to question me intently about my dating history and my plans to find a husband in Tucson. (I’d rather find a husband on To Catch A Predator)

This has nothing to do with anything. But come on. Come. On. Like you don't want to look at this.

Precious quotes like

“You know, I could be your personal cab driver-we could hang out. I’m just saying. We could hang out and I could drive you around. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you a virgin?”

“What do you want to study? Oh-you want to learn how to be a politician?”

Yes. Sir. Political Science teaches you how to blow anybody for a campaign donation while fucking your driver’s daughter. (If head doesn’t work, appoint more judges.)

I resent my parents even more for denying me a cell phone at this moment.

He then goes into a soliloquy about his life and “some drama” and “some fucked up shit” he has going on with HIS WIFE and finally he turns the corner that my dorm is on.

I pay him- with the little cash I have on hand, and he starts to unload.

But something is not right. It is 2:30am and there is not one light on in my dorm. No human being waiting for me. I start to have an uneasy feeling once again about my life, and my odds of avoiding being a Nancy Grace topic.

So he unloads, gives me his “card” (he’s a cab driver. Seriously?) and his cell phone number. Asks to hang out. I shudder. I sort of chuckle. Tell him I’ll call. (we’re married now)

I'm the inspiration for this game. I'm in this photo-but my lifeless mutilated body is under the front wheels.

I drag my bags up to the door and he is staring at me from the street. He knows I’m not getting in. It just hangs there. The panic I felt in that moment made it feel like an hour. How would I get him to leave? Where would I go?

These things would never-ever happen now. Now I’d just book a hotel before I traveled. I wouldn’t rely on an RA to do anything. Now, I’d just use my Evo to fucking call the police. Or the dorm. Or my parents. Or a hotel.

But I had nothing. I would have had to leave all my shit at this dorm and wander around a campus alone until I found a payphone. To call whom? My parents would not answer and they would not help. I resigned myself to just sleeping outside for the night. Until somebody left and I could make it into the building.

But he was still watching me. I ran back down-and he, of course, asked if I could get in-and wanted to wait with me.

“No, No, I just texted a friend and she is coming to let me in. Thanks so much-nice meeting you.”

He stared. But- luckily I think he was tired and he got in his cab and left.

 

But I was still stuck outside a dorm with 6 bags of crap, extremely tired, alone, with very little money, and no way to get into my dorm room.

And then- God answered my increasingly frantic prayers.

 

An SUV pulled up less than a minute later. A tiny girl hopped out and ran up to the stoop.

“Oh- hi.” she said and I told her the situation.

“Oh, you can sleep in the extra bed that is in my room. Come on, I’ll help carry your stuff up.”

He name was Bree. She was a tiny cheerleader who was a Tucson native- had moved in early and was getting home from a friend’s house. She helped me carry my stuff up, let me use her cell phone to call my parents and let them know I was still alive (barely) and her computer to email my friends. She talked to me until 3am when we both went to sleep. The next morning, she helped me check in and told me all about her boyfriend and friends when we grabbed coffee.

And here is the punchline ladies and gentlemen—-

She never. acknowledged me. again.

Never. In the elevator-she’d look down. In meetings, she’d introduce herself each time.

Is it me? Or is everybody here fucking nuts?

What a surprise.

* leche and shit.