Hey, I don't want to brag, but when you got it, you got it. And when it comes to picking up women with severe personality disorders, I've got it. Seems like whenever I'm in the same room with a sexy young nutcase looking for some hot dysfunctional action, we lock eyes and I gaze right into the twisted, abnormal recesses of her psyche, and then—bam! We make an instant, undeniable, and incredibly unhealthy connection. What can I say? When it comes to women, I'm a fucked-up-chick magnet.
I know what you're thinking: "Who is this guy to sound so full of himself?" I'm not being egotistical—it's just true. Hey, I know I'm not perfect. Who is? We've all got problems. I'm sure I've got some myself. But here's one problem I don't have: the ladies. When it comes to charming every borderline psycho in a skirt, I take second place to no man. I guess I just give off that "Hey there, pretty lady with the lifelong unresolved emotional issues" vibe. It can't be taught—you either got it or you don't. And I got it.
Everywhere I go, all kinds of psychiatrically disturbed women come running—women who never got over a traumatic childhood accident, or habitually cut themselves, or slept with their stepfathers, or abuse substances while locked in self-destructive cycles of internalized loathing and rage. They just can't keep their hands off me.
It's been this way my whole life. When I was 14, I got lucky with a classmate's mom. In high school, I dated every bipolar suicide risk in town. In college, I had at least a dozen girlfriends who couldn't decide whether they were mental patients or lesbians. It's just the way it is: Deranged dolls dig me.
I don't even have to try. Maybe it's chemistry, or pheromones, or these women can tell I'm afflicted with a complementary set of psychiatric disorders and their fucked-up-female intuition just can't resist. Whatever it is, I'm not complaining. All I have to do is show up at a bar, and before last call, every damaged woman in the place will make a beeline for yours truly, looking to get me entangled in a horrific web of codependency, manipulation, and mutual denial.
The sex is great, too. Believe me, all these highly unstable women have so many self-esteem issues, identity crises, and subconscious needs for approval from absent or emotionally abusive father figures, they'll do practically anything to try to please a man, no matter how self-destructive it is. Sweet!
Take this hot little nutjob who picked me up last weekend. Talk about crazy between the sheets! She cleaned my pipes six ways from Sunday before breaking down in tears out of nowhere at 4 a.m., screaming irrational threats, and trying to throw my stereo out the second-story window. Luckily, I was able to calm her down with a little TLC—time-release lithium capsules—and get her into a cab before she caused any serious property damage. But still, she can't stay away—she's been leaving, like, eight voicemail messages an hour on my cell phone. Hey, once they get a little taste of the old Deanster, they always come back for more... even after multiple restraining orders and injunctions.
All I can do is shrug and say, "Crazy women go crazy for me."
Lots of guys have asked for my secret, saying stuff like, "Wow, you sure can pick 'em," or "Dude, you need help." They can't understand how I manage to attract so many hot, wild, desperately pathological chicks. But I can't tell you my secret... It's just some kind of inexplicable magic.
Well, whatever it is, I'm enjoying every fucked-up minute of it.
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