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Elizabeth Wurtzel discovers that men don’t want to marry self-centered drama queens like her

September 30, 2014

It took 46 years:

Crazy ex-girlfriend

I was the worst girlfriend ever. And yes, I am the crazy ex-girlfriend you hear about. I had no regard for time of day or time of year or time at all. Perhaps I just had no regard. It’s not like I called boyfriends at 2 a.m. because something was wrong: I did it because I liked to talk in the dark when there was nothing good to watch on TV anymore.

I also called when something was wrong, and something was always wrong, because I could work my way into serious bother about something said in passing between the appetizer and the entree the night before, and that would turn into obsessive thoughts and long, intense conversations that would stretch across business hours and interrupt meetings all the next day. I needed — always absolutely needed — to get things resolved when it was not at all convenient. I called so repeatedly that I was impossible to ignore.

When technology enabled me to be demanding in many formats, my long voice mail messages became longer text messages and the longest emails. I was often hysterically upset or ragingly angry about nothing at all, and entire relationships became about failed communication and no more. I would swallow half a bottle of tranquilizers over a misunderstanding. And I would do this on New Year’s Eve.

And living out the maxim that chicks dig alpha jerks didn’t help:

If a man drank Jameson for breakfast and then smashed the bottle into bits on the bathroom tiles possibly by mistake, he was my boyfriend.

I was once meant to meet someone for dinner, and the appointed hour came and went with no sign of my date at the table for two. Sometime after midnight — well after — he called me to say he was in a house at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, and he needed me to come find him: He was wasted and had to get away. With this minimal information, I trekked all the way west on Spring Street toward the Hudson River, and I located him in a small white condemned structure beside a pileup of cars waiting to head underground to Jersey City. I don’t know what kind of radar I had to have had to find this place, but surely it was the desperation that drew me along and made me feel alive.

***

I cried profuse tears when my relationships failed, which was all the time. I wanted to love and be loved, but I behaved badly, and I had terrible taste. All the people who say they want to be married, but are not, are doing the same thing. All the statistics about how hard it is to find someone to love in this world — in this world of seven billion — do not account for the choices we make. We are the sum of our decisions: It’s not that luck has nothing to do with it, but rather, there is no such thing.

Moral: If you can’t find a husband, maybe it’s you who’s got the problem.

Posted by Charlotte Allen

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3 Comments
  1. “All the people who say they want to be married, but are not, are doing the same thing. All the statistics about how hard it is to find someone to love in this world — in this world of seven billion — do not account for the choices we make. We are the sum of our decisions: It’s not that luck has nothing to do with it, but rather, there is no such thing.”

    it took her that long to learn what everyone was telling her, all her life. stories like this fill me with so much schadenfreude, i can barely contain myself.

  2. Lastango permalink

    I’m reminded of a Cheryl Crow tune. I always thought it should be titled, “Are you dumb enough to be my man?”

    Here’s a live version… very well-performed!

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