I’ve decided to jump back into the world of online dating. I joined Match.com in hopes of finding the perfect: fun loving, adventurous, down to earth, easy going, outgoing, passionate about music, loves to go out but also enjoys staying in, sassy and smart, new-to-this-whole-online-dating-thing-and-still-thinks-it-weird-but-thought-she’d-give-it-a-try girl. I chose Match.com over some of the free alternatives like Plenty of Fish because I appreciate the commitment it takes to give out your credit card information and spend 25 bucks a month to find love.

Before I get into my first Match date, I’d like to say one more thing regarding the profiles. I’ve already ranted about these in my 10 Things I Hate About Online Dating blog, but there’s a new epidemic that needs to be addressed. To quickly add one more to the list . . .

11.  The Dog Pictures

Not the ones of you and your dog, the pictures of JUST your dog. You know who would enjoy seeing photos of the cute terrier spaniel mix you “rescued”? Other fucking chicks. Not dudes.

Despite a seemingly pessimistic attitude, I still get excited over the prospect of finding my “soulmate”.  And so it began.

She was a blue-eyed beauty named Kelly0584. She messaged me first, saying how much she enjoyed the documentary King of Kong (it’s in my profile). She had a pale complexion, contrasted with dark brown hair. I thought she looked like Zooey Deschanel, who is easily the most underrated hot celebrity. She was also an aspiring writer who has her own blog. I was in love. Unable to control my excitement, I emailed her picture to my friend Dustin, telling him about the date we were soon to go on. I chose a particular shot in which she especially resembled Zooey, boasting about how I’d found the next best thing. “She’s either hot or she’s not hot” he ambiguously replied. I stared blankly at his words on my computer screen for a minute or so, trying to decipher what he meant by this. Surely there was something in between hot and not she could be, like “cute”.

We agreed to meet at Bosa Nova, the only restaurant in Hollywood I’m familiar with, even after living there for two years. I pulled up at 7:20, ten minutes before our arranged meeting time, and received a text from my future girlfriend saying, ”Work is crazy ugh! running a little late, can we push it back to 7:45?”. I told her it was no problem and turned the ignition back on so I could listen to the radio. At 7:40, I checked my reflection in the rear view mirror one last time before stepping out and walking down to the restaurant. The hostess who greeted me said there was no wait for a party of two, so I told her I was expecting my date to arrive any minute. She suggested I sit outside. It was a beautiful night.

At 7:50 I received another text. “Moving just as fast as I can! traffic is ridiculous, be there in 15″. Reading this, I felt a wave of relief. For ten minutes I could relax and not worry about doing my best James Dean impression while posing on the wooden benches out front. I slumped into a more comfortable sitting position and stopped checking out every dark-haired girl walking by to see if it was her. I looked through the emails on my phone and actually read them instead of just making my cool reading face. Finally, when ten minutes passed, I went back to James Dean mode. Unsure of which direction she might be coming from, and not wanting to look like a spaz jerking his head left to right every two seconds, I popped the collar of my Euro jacket and stared into the distance, furrowing my eyebrows as if deep and meaningful thoughts filled my head. At 8:10, another text: ”So sorry, almost there, 10 more minutes”. I started to grow impatient and care less about my looks.

At 8:20, fifty minutes late and fifty pounds overweight, she arrived. She had a huge, wide, fat head that seemed almost cartoonish. I figured she was an ex-body builder and the gigantism was a side effect of the steroids. She was sloppy, and frumpy, and out of breath from the fifteen feet she had to walk from the valet service. Instead of imagining the song we’d first dance to at our wedding, I now wondered whether she’d be worth calling at 2 a.m. after twelve beers. Deciding that my drunk dialing list could always use another name, I sat down to find out what was in that God-awful large head of hers. Despite being completely turned off by this girl the instant we met face to giant fat face, I still sought her approval. I wanted her to walk away thinking I’m a catch.

They placed us beneath a hot white light that beamed down on the shiny surface of our bright orange wooden table. To the left of us sat an older couple just three feet away, separated by a giant metal heater that raged on with the fires of Mordor. Even though I’d written off this date, I still wanted to maintain my mystique, so I kept my Euro jacket on despite the aurora borealis looming over our heads. I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead and flipped to the back of the menu for the beer selections.

“Can I get you guys something to drink?” our server asked with a midwest accent. Fat Zooey jumped at this, sparking up a conversation about her home town of Alabama, or somewhere around there. They gabbed like old friends, making me feel as if I should offer up my seat to the waitress and see if she was fixin for a nice glass of sweet tea. I sat back watching the two talk and wondered how I could’ve been so deceived by this girl’s pictures. We all try to pick the most flattering images we can find to represent ourselves. I had a lot of shots where I’m doing that 3/4 head turn to conceal my double chin. I also had a few shots taken indoors with the flash, which seems to wash out everything and hide a lot of the unflattering details the spot light above me was sure to pick up. Still though, she was fat. That’s just a flat-out lie. I merely manipulated the truth. The equivalent to this would be for me to post a bunch of photos where I have a beanie or a hat on, then show up with a hairline resembling Fraser Crane’s. She even had a couple full body shots in her pictures, including one with her and all her friends, giving what I thought to be an accurate sense of scale. To make matters worse, in all of her emails she always managed to find a way to slip in the fact that she was about to go to the gym, or just got back from the gym, or “Really sore from this cardio class that totally kicked my ass!” Which seems counterintuitive, like getting a 900 on your SAT’s and defending your low score by explaining that you studied your ass off for months before taking the test.

Our server returned with a large sangria for Fat Zooey and a Corona for me. We sipped our drinks and looked through the menu. “She’s nice.” I said, referring to her new BFF. ” I don’t know how you do that. . . just spark up a conversation with a stranger . . . I’m not very sociable, I usually find it to be a waste of time . . . I mean, you’re never gonna see these people again, so why bother getting to know them?” I asked rhetorically, shrugging my shoulders and taking a swig of my beer. She nodded politely and finished her Sangria in three massive gulps. When a bus boy came by she ordered another one. We still hadn’t received the complimentary basket of bread.

“So, do you know what you’re gonna get?” I asked, trying to cool things down and find a neutral topic. We then discussed the menu – what we wanted, what looked good, what we’ve tried before. Then, I started up again. I told her I lived in Hollywood for two years and this was the only sit-down restaurant I knew of because I usually just eat fast food. She reached for her straw as I continued. “I hate cooking or preparing food, all the meals I eat at home are the pre-packaged stuff you buy in the freezer section of the grocery store. You know, like chicken nuggets or fish sticks. Sometimes I’ll buy a bag of tortilla chips and shredded cheese, but I’ll be too lazy to put the two in the microwave and make nachos, so I’ll just sprinkle some cheese on a chip and eat it like that, usually over the kitchen sink so I don’t make a mess. Actually, I eat most of my meals over the kitchen sink, that way I don’t have to do dishes.” I smiled uncomfortably at her blank reaction and looked back down at my menu. She asked a server walking by (not ours) for another large sangria, her third.

After we ordered she excused herself to go to the restroom. When she was no longer in sight, I grabbed my napkin and wiped down my sweaty greasy face. My jacket was itchy and uncomfortable and the collar chaffed my neck. I desperately wanted to remove it, but I knew if I did that now she’d know I lied when I said I wasn’t hot. After sweating it out for another minute, I finally took the stupid thing off. I doubted she was smart enough to realize I lied anyways.

When she sat back down, I brought up something she mentioned in her latest blog. “So. . . your sister just had a kid?” I inquired. This turned out to be a success as she talked in circles about it for a good five minutes. She gave the same redundant speech every single girl my age gives – ” I want kids, but not now, some day, not today, but I LOVE kids.” I told her that I worked daycare with Parks and Recreation for four years. “I loved the job, except for the kids… I hated the kids” I explained. She turned quiet until the sound of her slurping sangria broke the silence. “Well, I didn’t hate ALL of them… just most of them… When you think about it, kids are just smaller dumber obnoxious versions of adults.” I reasoned, remembering all the brats I got paid minimum wage to babysit. She grew nervous and kept a watchful eye on my hands, as if they had been strangling sweet innocent children earlier. I found this judgment to be a little unfair because when she thinks kids, she’s thinking about the cute four-year-old that calls her Aunty Kelly and asks her to play tea party. When I think kids, I’m thinking about the little cry-baby throwing a tantrum every time he gets out in dodgeball. Just in time to break the awkward silence, our food arrived. Fat Zooey (curious what her nickname for me at this point might have been) ordered her fourth sangria. I knew this to be the exact number because she was too fast for the bus boys and had accumulated a line of three large, purple stained, empty glasses.

We stopped talking and ate. I anxiously awaited the server to come by after my first bite and ask me “How is everything?” because they always do that shit and I can’t really enjoy my meal until it’s out of the way. Knowing you could be interrogated by a stranger at any moment when you have a mouthful of spaghetti doesn’t make for a pleasant dining experience. “How ya’ll doin? everything alright?” Our southern bell asked us with a much thicker accent now, possibly to get a bigger tip. I gave a thumbs up and a smile, my polite way of shooing her away.

After barely finishing half of my food, too full from adrenaline and angst, I pushed my plate away in an act of submission and sipped my water. Fat Zooey took another bite of her chicken and washed it down with the remains of her fourth sangria. Our server walked by and she lifted a hand, then lazily pointed to the empty glass, now ordering through sign language. A fifth sangria quickly found its way next to the bottomless drinking machine. For a second, I thought about ordering a large beer and playing catch up. Maybe if we both got drunk this might turn out okay. I discretely glanced at my cell phone to find it was already past nine. I still had a half an hour drive back to my apartment and this girl wasn’t worth the DUI. We reverted to small talk again, as if we skipped over the first five minutes of the date and needed to make up for them. “Nice night out.” I commented. “Yeah . . it’s nice” she complied. “Did you park far from here” she asked. “No . . . not to far” I replied.

Once our plates were cleared, I found myself alone at the table as she retreated again to the ladies room. This time I got on my phone. I scrolled through my emails and felt a sting when I saw the ones sent from her. What used to be my most cherished notes, notes that would make my heart skip a beat with anticipation before opening to read, were now junk mail. Emails from Netflix letting me know what DVD’s were coming Thursday bared more relevance. My life returned to the mundane routine of work and television. I wanted to hurry this thing up so I could squeeze in a few more episodes of Party Down Season 2.

“Ya’ll save room for desert?” Our server asked when my date returned. I smiled and shook my head no, looking across the table to see if we were in agreement. “Okay, how about another round” she asked, eyeing the line of drinks. Drunk Zooey shook her head in bewilderment, “Nope, I think we’re good” she said casually, as if this were a ridiculous question. The waitress came back shortly and placed a black folder next to me. I picked it up and watched Drunk Zooey look around the patio, avoiding eye contact. I leaned over to pull out my wallet and grabbed the bill. She hesitantly reached for her purse and I blurted out before thinking over the consequences, “I got this.” She said nothing and put her purse back down. I don’t know why I said this, we were two adults that failed to make a connection, the reasonable thing would be to split the loss and go our separate ways. Instead, I signed my name under the $87 tab and started to identify with those girls that complain about feeling cheap and used after putting out the first date. I knew I’d never see this girl again, and more importantly, she knew she’d never see me again, yet she sat in silence and watched me pay for her five God damn sangrias.

Driving home, I thought about my old dating motto of, “You don’t shoot you don’t score” and began altering it to fit my current opinion. “You don’t shoot you don’t miss . . . You don’t shoot you don’t humiliate yourself . . . You don’t shoot you don’t waste 87 fucking dollars on a chick you didn’t really want to score with anyways.” I thought about all the DVD’s I could’ve rented, or Chipotle burritos I could’ve eaten, or 12-packs of Coronas I could’ve drank with that money. I’ve always hated the term “puppy love”. The older I get, the more jaded and pragmatic I become. I feel like love is at it’s purest at 16 and slowly gets diluted with age. The search for “The One” has slowly been replaced with the search for “A cool chick I like hanging out with who doesn’t photoshop her fatass pics and mooch sangrias off me without even thanking me.” From now on, I’m taking all these online floozies to lame ass Starbucks. Zooey Deschanel is no longer my favorite under-the-radar actress.

I’ve learned so much about morality and judgment recently. I’m only 18 but recently I feel older. I used to be the kind of girl with strong opinions. I thought the world was black and white; that there was right and wrong. I wanted to be a good person, and that meant holding myself up to a certain standard.
I wouldn’t say I’ve let my standards drop. I still believe in morality. I still believe in goodness, but I judge people less. I’ve learned that you can never understand how or why people do things. You don’t know their feelings or motivations. What I did looks so wrong on so many levels. I know that if I tell my story, people will judge me. They don’t understand why I would do this to someone I loved. “How could you fall in love with your boyfriend’s best friend.” How? Why? What were you thinking?

THAT’S THE THING ABOUT LOVE. You don’t choose. If we chose who we fell for, then the world would be a perfect fucking place. No girls would get fucked over by the bad boys. We could make ourselves fall in love with Mr. Right. But that’s not how it works. We don’t control who we fall in love with, and love fucks with our ability to think properly.

I fell in love with my boyfriend’s best friend. I left my boyfriend for him. I destroyed my relationship with someone I had been dating for 2 years. He destroyed his relationship with someone he had cared for and enjoyed the company of for 3 years, someone he thought of as a brother.

Was it worth it? Yes. There are times I regret it. But I’m a nostalgic person. I like to think about the past and what I shared with my ex. I think about how I hurt him and what an awful person I am and how I hate myself sometimes. But then I look into my boyfriend eyes (the current ones eyes) and I know I made the right choice. How could I stay with someone when I love another man? That would be living a lie. I may be a lot of things but I’m not a cheater or a liar. I’m proud that we waited till I broke up with him to start a physical relationship. I am glad that we grew to be best friends before we started dating. Our relationship is stronger than I could have imagined. I get to make love to my best friend. We understand each other and we talk about growing old together. The likelihood we will make it is slim. Our paths will one day split. But all that matters is that i went for it. I wasn’t too scared to try.

I threw away everything, which was the most invigorating and terrifying feeling. He is like a drug, and I’m being selfish, but junkies only care about their own fix. I didn’t have children with my ex, we were young, I feel that you need to look after yourself when you don’t have any real responsibility. We are too young not to take risks and go for it. Even if we get fucked over we will make it out okay.

And now I judge people less. I think about how no one can know the full story, and unless you’re in the situation… you have no clue how you would react. Everyone who judges me can fuck off because I know that I did the right thing. Well, I guess the right thing would have been to not fall in love with him? But how were we supposed to do that?

I don’t think I’ll ever look back and regret this no matter how it ends. We’re both freaks and I finally feel like I’ve found someone who understands the sides of me I wouldn’t dare show to anyone else. I never believed love like this existed and I’m so lucky to be able to experience it, and if people judge me for it, all I can say is just wait till you find yourself in a moral dilemma. There is no right or wrong, there is just truth, and that comes from your gut. No amount of logic or lists can compete with that feeling of what you truly want.

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First of all, let me just say how amazing I think you are.
I’m only 18 years old, but I find you incredibly inspiring. I’m still figuring myself out, but I want so much to be as level-headed and strong as you are.
Secondly, I just thought I’d ask for your advice.
Yes, I know, I’m only 18, but I have issues too! They may not be as intense, but when you’re 18, everything is a big deal.
So, it’s my first year of college and I’m feeling really lonely.
I have some good friends and I have a ton of support back home. But, romantically, my life is dull.
I mean, all I’ve had are meaningless hookups and make out sessions, which is great….until the next morning when you go home….alone.
Every guy I like is only interested in one thing.
I mean, I hooked up with this guy a few weeks ago, and he seemed like he really liked me…and then I found out that he was seeing someone else -.-
I just wish for once, a guy would like me for me, you know?
Not just for a night.
Don’t get me wrong, the nights are fun while they last.
But I want more.
I want something real.
Again, I know I’m young. But I want to find someone.
I’m tired of being the one-night-stand.
I want to be more than that.
Am I just being stupid? Should I just keep having fun? Should I just focus on myself? Help!

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E MAIL ME @ boycrazyalexi@gmail.com

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PS:

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Observations on sex from a single woman – w4m

Date: 2009-09-07, 11:22PM EDT

So, I’m a single, classy, well-educated, professional, in shape, cool woman… I’m dating and on the somewhat rare occasions when I meet somebody cool… someone I connect to and have chemistry with… I have sex. Here are some observations and tips for you guys from a somewhat sexually frustrated woman:

PostingID: 1363379397

Hi Alexi, I want to share a story with you and also let you know how your blog has changed me.

I’ve been seeing this boy, sort of for a while. He’s super sweet, he gets my cultural references, he’s got a giant penis and knows how to use it. He says sweet things to me, shares, makes sure I always get home safely. He’s bearded, tall, well-dressed and intelligent. He’s a dreamboat, in my honest opinion and I hate most men, so I don’t use that term very liberally.
The only catch is that he has a crazy ex-girlfriend.

Last weekend, while we were in the middle of a cuddle/movie sesh and his ex phones. He goes in the other room, yet her drunk dialing continues. He finally turned off his phone and explained how she’s a drunk, crazy bitch and they broke up from a long-term relationship a few months ago and have “joint custody” of the animals that live in his house. Whatever, right? We all have one crazy ex, or at least, I know I do.

So last night, he invited me over. We went for coffee and then ventured to his house. I met some of him and his roommate’s friends who seemed pretty sweet. They left at about 2am. We had plans to make tea and go to bed when there comes a knock on the door.

If you’ve ever watched 90210 (the new one), you’ll remember Jen, Naomi Clark’s sister. Well, this is the voice I heard as the door opened (it was unlocked). This 100lb redhead walks in, holier-than-thou going on about how she’s half-cut, offers us wine and sits down to explain how she’s had such a terrible night with the guy she’s seeing and was in the neighbourhood, so she thought she’d just invite herself over at 3am to vent.

I knew this was the ex, just from the vibe.

I snuck outside to have a cigarette and phone my best friend to explain the situation to her. Just after we ended our conversation, boy comes out. He apologizes for the interruption of his ex girlfriend and explains that she’s a little bit of a crazy bitch when inebriated. I explained to him that I’d like to go to bed soon and asked when she was leaving. He then explained to me that apparently, she had nowhere else to go so she had to crash. I said, “Weird, but fine.” Then he interrupted, by explaining that I would have to sleep alone on the couch while they slept in his bedroom.

I thought about it for a minute. I was enraged. I reverted back to my teenage self and tried to brush it off like I didn’t care, like it was fine. But tears welled up in my eyes. I was silver-medal compared to this bitch. I was second best. I quickly and maturely explained to him that that wasn’t fair. She should leave or at least sleep on the couch. I was there first. Yet, his back bone seemed to diminish as he explained to me that “things were still complicated and they were still sleeping together.” I explained that although we weren’t serious and we were just getting to know each other, it didn’t matter. Whomever he was sleeping with or seeing other than me doesn’t have to have anything to do with me.

I felt sixteen again. Trapped. Rejected. I literally texted 18 people in five minutes desperately, looking for a place to stay, looking for help.

If he had been at my house that night and one of my exes or friends with benefits or dudes I was seeing showed up, I would promptly tell them I was busy and to leave after questioning why they thought it was appropriate to show up at my home unannounced, half cut at 3am.

After this discussion, I explained to him that I would be selling myself short to sleep on the couch alone while he slept with his ex in his bedroom to “figure out” whatever needed to be figured out. I asked him not to feed me bullshit, and he continued to explain how complicated the situation was, how he’s enjoying getting to know me, how beautiful and perfect I am and how he gets excited every time he sees me, yet is not committed enough to have a relationship with me.
I never asked for a relationship.

All I asked is to have passionate sex in his bedroom, drink tea, talk about the world and cuddle, like we usually do.

By this point, his bones had turned to jelly. I was leaving, this bitch was here to stay. You could see the satisfaction in her drunken face that I was leaving. She knew she had the upper-hand. In my rage, I almost wanted to take out my earrings and tell her what a stupid bitch she was, but alas, I’m more refined than that.

He offered to pay for a cab so that I could go home. The ex lives six blocks away, while I live across town and he spent 5x the amount it would have cost to get her home, so that I could leave. He paid for me to leave so that he could spend the night with his ex.

As soon as I got home, I burst into tears.

Now today, his roommate has been talking to me, telling me how sorry he is that he wasn’t awake to drive me home, telling me how right I was for leaving. The boy has also been texting me, apologizing for the asshole move he made, saying that he enjoys me, but things are still oh-so complicated between him and his ex. He wants to take me for coffee, lunch, movies, dinner, anything and wants me to forgive him.

I don’t know that I’ll never forgive him. But I don’t know if he’s worth my time after last night. I went from being a giddy school girl to being an anxious mess in literally two minutes because of this woman who means nothing to me.

But, I know if I would have stayed on that couch, I would have felt worse today. The teenage me may have, just to avoid drama. I would have put a smile on my face and just dealt with how shitty I felt and maybe cried myself to sleep knowing I was not the one that night. But instead, I grew a backbone and with class, told him that what he was doing was incredibly shitty, but that I wasn’t going to argue about it any longer.

I don’t know what’ll happen with this boy. Before this, he seemed perfect. While watching movies, I could feel his glance at me and see a smirk from the corner of my eye. When he runs his fingers down my back after we have sex, I shiver. When he tells me about his interests and goals, I’m interested, as he is when I talk about mine.

Despite all that, I’m capable of so much and worth so much more than the couch and I know that and I think realizing that is a part of growing up. It’s funny how in moments of rejection, self-doubt and confidence blows, you find small bits of pride in yourself. I was the better person. I didn’t yell, I didn’t scream, I didn’t tell him that I hated him. I just explained how I felt and how what he was doing was wrong and left with class. I never would have done this four or five years ago.

Thank-you for showing women everywhere that they are empowered and in control, even when everything around them is out of control.

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E MAIL ME @ boycrazyalexi@gmail.com

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PS:

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Hey Alexi,

You lay there with your legs intertwined with his. You roll to your side, reaching for something in particular, but you can no longer remember what it was you were reaching for. Your hands grasp for nothing. You arm falls lazily to the side of the bed. You lay on your side, and unlike the ones before him, he doesn’t reach for you. You like it that way. You hate the feeling of a heavy arm on your shoulder. The heat from his skin burns your back.

He hands you a cigarette and a glass of water, pushes the stray strands of hair away from your face. His lips warm, they kiss you close to your ear lobe. It’s always perfect. He knows your secrets, the ones you’ve yet to tell him. He excuses himself and climbs out. He pulls you up onto the pillow. He pulls you slowly, delicately. And then he walks out and you watch him leave.

You roll back onto your side, check the time and stare at the wall. He returns with another glass of water. He climbs back into bed. He pulls you closer by your legs. You wrap your legs around him and he holds you too close. You realize this is too close but you say nothing. This time it will be different.

You are intoxicated by him. His lips, his eyes. The way he teases you, twirls your hair around his finger. His boyish charm, his juvenile sense of humour. The way he makes you wait for hours, days. He owes no explanation to you and you command none. He will call and you will crawl back into bed with him. He will leave you without pictures, songs, borrowed t-shirts and other memorabilia that lovers exchange. He is everything you want, but he is not what you should want.

He is cold, unknowingly manipulative. Your hands fit perfectly into his. He closes his eyes for a moment and you kiss him gently. You know that this time will be different. But it never is. You compare him to the beautiful men in lovely black and white movies. Tall, stoic. Workaholics, alcoholics with no soul but with eyes full of too much soul, and all it takes is an honest conversation. They become changed men. Men capable of holding and feeling. They run away with you to Paris. You peruse the streets of Rome with him. He is there at night and you can hear him breathing. The only two stars of your wonderful movie, in black and white, with no blurring grey areas.

Or you lay in bed alone, promising to never love the man you shouldn’t want. But you were never very good at keeping promises.

JOIN THE I’M BOYCRAZY CONVERSATION! 

IF YOU WANNA SUBMIT SOMETHING, I’D LOVE TO SEE IT AND POST IT!

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TELL ME SOMETHING! WHAT ARE YOU FEELING/NOTICING?

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? WHAT’S BOTHERING YOU?

E MAIL ME @ boycrazyalexi@gmail.com

write ‘make it YOURS monday’ in the heading (for videos)

OR ‘reader submission’ (for written submissions)

PS:

• follow me on twitter @imboycrazy

• call me and leave a voice message: 888 666-2045

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You’re so sensitive. You’re so emotional. You’re defensive. You’re overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You’re crazy! I was just joking, don’t you have a sense of humor? You’re so dramatic. Just get over it already!

Sound familiar?

If you’re a woman, it probably does.

Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said?

When someone says these things to you, it’s not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling — that’s inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, “Calm down, you’re overreacting,” after you just addressed someone else’s bad behavior, is emotional manipulation, pure and simple.

And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It’s patently false and unfair.

I think it’s time to separate inconsiderate behavior from emotional manipulation, and we need to use a word not found in our normal vocabulary.

I want to introduce a helpful term to identify these reactions: gaslighting.

Gaslighting is a term often used by mental health professionals (I am not one) to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.

The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman’s husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim’s perception of him or herself.

Today, when the term is referenced, it’s usually because the perpetrator says things like, “You’re so stupid,” or “No one will ever want you,” to the victim. This is an intentional, pre-meditated form of gaslighting, much like the actions of Charles Boyer’s character in Gaslight, where he strategically plots to confuse Ingrid Bergman’s character into believing herself unhinged.

The form of gaslighting I’m addressing is not always pre-mediated or intentional, which makes it worse, because it means all of us, especially women, have dealt with it at one time or another.

Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction — whether it’s anger, frustration, sadness — in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren’t rational or normal.

My friend Anna (all names changed to protect privacy) is married to a man who feels it necessary to make random and unprompted comments about her weight. Whenever she gets upset or frustrated with his insensitive comments, he responds in the same, defeating way, “You’re so sensitive. I’m just joking.”

My friend Abbie works for a man who finds a way, almost daily, to unnecessarily shoot down her performance and her work product. Comments like, “Can’t you do something right?” or “Why did I hire you?” are regular occurrences for her. Her boss has no problem firing people (he does it regularly), so you wouldn’t know from these comments that Abbie has worked for him for six years. But every time she stands up for herself and says, “It doesn’t help me when you say these things,” she gets the same reaction: “Relax; you’re overreacting.”

Abbie thinks her boss is just being a jerk in these moments, but the truth is, he is making those comments to manipulate her into thinking her reactions are out of whack. And it’s exactly that kind manipulation that has left her feeling guilty about being sensitive, and as a result, she has not left her job.

But gaslighting can be as simple as someone smiling and saying something like, “You’re so sensitive,” to somebody else. Such a comment may seem innocuous enough, but in that moment, the speaker is making a judgment about how someone else should feel.

While dealing with gaslighting isn’t a universal truth for women, we all certainly know plenty of women who encounter it at work, home, or in personal relationships.

And the act of gaslighting does not simply affect women who are not quite sure of themselves. Even vocal, confident, assertive women are vulnerable to gaslighting.

Why?

Because women bare the brunt of our neurosis. It is much easier for us to place our emotional burdens on the shoulders of our wives, our female friends, our girlfriends, our female employees, our female colleagues, than for us to impose them on the shoulders of men.

It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.

Whether gaslighting is conscious or not, it produces the same result: It renders some women emotionally mute.

These women aren’t able to clearly express to their spouses that what is said or done to them is hurtful. They can’t tell their boss that his behavior is disrespectful and prevents them from doing their best work. They can’t tell their parents that, when they are being critical, they are doing more harm than good.

When these women receive any sort of push back to their reactions, they often brush it off by saying, “Forget it, it’s okay.”

That “forget it” isn’t just about dismissing a thought, it is about self-dismissal. It’s heartbreaking.

No wonder some women are unconsciously passive aggressive when expressing anger, sadness, or frustration. For years, they have been subjected to so much gaslighting that they can no longer express themselves in a way that feels authentic to them.

They say, “I’m sorry,” before giving their opinion. In an email or text message, they place a smiley face next to a serious question or concern, thereby reducing the impact of having to express their true feelings.

You know how it looks: “You’re late ”

These are the same women who stay in relationships they don’t belong in, who don’t follow their dreams, who withdraw from the kind of life they want to live.

Since I have embarked on this feminist self-exploration in my life and in the lives of the women I know, this concept of women as “crazy” has really emerged as a major issue in society at large and an equally major frustration for the women in my life, in general.

From the way women are portrayed on reality shows, to how we condition boys and girls to see women, we have come to accept the idea that women are unbalanced, irrational individuals, especially in times of anger and frustration.

Just the other day, on a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a flight attendant who had come to recognize me from my many trips asked me what I did for a living. When I told her that I write mainly about women, she immediately laughed and asked, “Oh, about how crazy we are?”

Her gut reaction to my work made me really depressed. While she made her response in jest, her question nonetheless makes visible a pattern of sexist commentary that travels through all facets of society on how men view women, which also greatly impacts how women may view themselves.

As far as I am concerned, the epidemic of gaslighting is part of the struggle against the obstacles of inequality that women constantly face. Acts of gaslighting steal their most powerful tool: their voice. This is something we do to women every day, in many different ways.

I don’t think this idea that women are “crazy,” is based in some sort of massive conspiracy. Rather, I believe it’s connected to the slow and steady drumbeat of women being undermined and dismissed, on a daily basis. And gaslighting is one of many reasons why we are dealing with this public construction of women as “crazy.”

I recognize that I’ve been guilty of gaslighting my women friends in the past (but never my male friends–surprise, surprise). It’s shameful, but I’m glad I realized that I did it on occasion and put a stop to it.

While I take total responsibility for my actions, I do believe that I, along with many men, am a byproduct of our conditioning. It’s about the general insight our conditioning gives us into admitting fault and exposing any emotion.

When we are discouraged in our youth and early adulthood from expressing emotion, it causes many of us to remain steadfast in our refusal to express regret when we see someone in pain from our actions.

When I was writing this piece, I was reminded of one of my favorite Gloria Steinem quotes, “The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.”

So for many of us, it’s first about unlearning how to flicker those gaslights and learning how to acknowledge and understand the feelings, opinions, and positions of the women in our lives.

But isn’t the issue of gaslighting ultimately about whether we are conditioned to believe that women’s opinions don’t hold as much weight as ours? That what women have to say, what they feel, isn’t quite as legitimate?

Yashar will be soon releasing his first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts.

This piece originally appeared on The Current Conscience.

Follow Yashar Ali on Twitter: www.twitter.com/yashar

Dear Alexi,

After reading your blog for years now, I knew that you would be the woman with the most insight and solid advice I could possibly get my hands on for my situation. After over a year of joking about fucking my incredibly hot history teacher, fantasy seems as if it may be turning into reality. This 23 year old man is pretty much the man of my sexual fantasies: tousled brown hair, bearded, dresses ridiculously well (Frequently in plaid, vintage sweaters, straight legged pants, peacoat, layers his clothes, all his colors are coordinated), listens to great music, reads great books, watches great films and tv, frequents small business coffee shops, cultured, passionate about social inequalities, etc etc etc. Everyone else in my school pretty much dismissed him as being gay because a man that attractive could not possibly dress that well, but I was pretty stubborn in saying that the way a man dresses does not determine whether or not he likes taking cock up his ass.

I decided over the summer going into my senior year that I was going to seduce my teacher. First, I added him on Facebook (despite that being against school policy) and he accepted. He liked a few of my statuses and pictures then, but it was not really much to write home about, but still intriguing. Then once the school year started, he requested me to be his TA, I dropped one of my elective classes just so I could do it and have a class with him and talk to him on a daily basis. About a month into the year he told me that he was leaving at the end of this year to go to grad school, that he knew that this was not what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. After breaking up with my boyfriend, I told him how all guys my age that I date are always too clingy, calling me their ‘dream girl’ and how I am perfect and how that is not what I want and I hate it and it is too fucking much for me to handle. I pretty much let him know that all the guys my age are too immature for me. One night, I decided to talk to him over Facebook, and we talked for a couple of hours and when he left he said, “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, do you want to continue this conversation at [insert name of coffee shop] tomorrow?” and of course I accepted and told him what time I’d be arriving there.

So the following day we have coffee together, I am sure to make a lot of eye contact, smile and giggle a lot, and occasionally bite my lip as he is speaking. I ask him, “So, since you are leaving at the end of the year, have you sort of stopped caring?” and he replies, “Well, kind of, yes. I mean, I don’t really care if I make a mistake anymore, or if I get in trouble with administration because if they try to fire me, it is like, ‘No, I’m resigning’.” This of course makes my ears perk up. What was that? You don’t care if you get in trouble with administration? So much trouble that you could get fired? Well then. And so I ask, “So is it ever hard to teach people who are so close in age to you?” and he tells me, “Yeah, because some of them are so mature and adult-like, I have trouble treating them like students rather than peers.” Oh, is this some sort of a hint as to what he wants? Or am reading too much into this? I feel as if I am putting it out there as to what I want and desire, so that he knows he is not over stepping any boundaries. After three hours of talking, we part ways.

The next week at school I try to act normal, so as not to seem too interested or eager. I want him, but I don’t want look desperate. In class we were talking about social inequalities and I was sure to tell him about how I was very enraged by gender inequalities, sexual double standards, and slut shaming (which are all true, not just a ploy to show him I am openly sexual and own my sexuality and feel all women should). He seems very impressed by my passion and we discuss the issue for a while. I tell him about how I want to go home, open all of the windows in my room, listen to Bon Iver on vinyl, and lay in bed and just listen. I tell him how I love laying in bed and just listening to records but how no one my age ever wants to do something like that, how they all get bored or they’ll talk all the way through it. He tells me how it is rare to find someone who will just lay and listen to music, and how he wants to listen to Bon Iver on vinyl sometime. This weekend, he went home to visit his family and his status on facebook was, “Bon Iver and Frank Sinatra are the ideal travel companions.” Coincidence? Or was it my influence?

I fear most about reading into everything as him being interested in me and want to make this a hot and sexy forbidden relationship. Do you think he is just being friendly or is there something more here? Also, he knows I am 18 and that legally, everything is in the clear.

What do you think I should do as far as actions go? I don’t want to be too much more forward if he is not into it and make everything terribly awkward, uncomfortable, and weird. But I feel like he is giving me signs that he is interested. Alexi, boycrazy goddess, give me your insight and tell it like it is.

xoxo, Anonymous

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I will try to make this a fairly quick version of what could be an insanely long story. I was living with my boyfriend of close to 10 years, Derick, when I started to go crazy. Derick was my first serious boyfriend–I lost my virginity to him, and him to me. He was and still is the most patient, loving, amazing guy, the guy that every girl dreams about being with—someone who surprises you with little gifts or handwritten poems—and not just in the beginning of the relationship but all the way through it.  But the best thing was that he matched my personality so well. While I was abrasive, had a strong personality, and wanted to be out doing something constantly, he was quiet, super smart, and loved by every single person he met. I didn’t realize that not all guys were like this and I took that for granted.

I knew the first time I saw Hamid that if I was ever to be around him it would be bad news. I looked at him—didn’t even really meet him—and felt this intensity, like I knew we were going to get together. Thankfully he was more a peripheral friend to Derick and I didn’t see him again until after I moved into a house with Derick. Hamid was living in the downstairs apartment. At first it was fine…we hung out, all of us were good friends and part of a larger friend group of about 20 in the area. I’ve always had really great guy friends so it wasn’t a big deal to hang out with him one-on-one. Plus Derick trusted me completely and knew he didn’t have to worry about anything. I worked as the only female at a bar with all frat guys and he didn’t even blink an eye. After a year Hamid moved to a neighboring town. I didn’t see him as much as before, but we all still hung out every weekend. It continued like that for close to three years or so. Hamid and I would hang out just the two of us—go swimming or eat. Nothing out of the ordinary for any two friends to do but I started to want more.

If you had asked me to describe my physical preference for a guy it would be Hamid. He was 6’3”, dark hair, dark eyes, extremely athletic with a thin toned body. He had these amazingly beautiful eyes that felt like he could see right through me. He was also like this much admired figure to our friends that he went to school with. It also didn’t hurt that he hadn’t dated anyone since high school which was 8 years prior. I thought it was kind of hot…like a challenge with a fucking great prize. He could do no wrong. He was Mr. Popular in high school, and now he was Mr. Popular in his personal and work life. Girls threw themselves at him, girls at work created a “we think Hamid is hot” fan club, but he never went for any of it. It seemed like he was just shy or nervous and waiting for the right person. I wanted to be that person.

And then it got bad. I began to have that before-mentioned breakdown. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I started talking to him more via text, and IM, which made it worse. I started to get so emotional it was scary. I’d be a mess if he didn’t come down over the weekend. I’d worry about girls that he may be interested in at his work. I didn’t live in the same town so I had no idea what he did during the week or who he was with. I started to become a violent mess. One night I came home to Derick and a group of our friends and I proceeded to yell and cry, throwing a chair in the process. After everyone left I threw our Christmas tree across the room and pushed Derick down. It was horrible. I felt awful to treat Derick like that, but I felt so out of control. Who the fuck acts like that? I was embarrassing myself and I hated having to send texts to friends the next day apologizing for being a crazy bitch.

I decided the only way it would end is if I told Hamid how I felt. It was so scary. It was right after Christmas 2008. I had figured I was going to be moving away that summer anyway so I may as well tell him so then I wouldn’t have too long to feel pathetic and embarrassed before I was away from him. I called him while I was out at dinner with some girl friends. We talked and made plans to meet and work out whatever needed to be worked out. We met that weekend at this great Italian restaurant and decided that since we were both interested in each other we should give it a try before I left. It was strange—I know—who goes out and has a business meeting about how they are going to cheat together and keep it a secret from all of our friends, but we did.

The next time I went over to see him we had sex. I left and I was so freaked out about what I had done. He texted me and asked if I was okay—he didn’t want me to run away. I didn’t, and I didn’t move away that summer either. We carried on our secret relationship right in front of all of our friends for five months before Derick found out. He got on my email and read IM’s between Hamid and I. Needless to say it was extremely horrible. I felt like the worst person, and although I had felt guilty the whole time it was going on it wasn’t anything like the guilt after seeing Derick so hurt. Some people may wonder how this was going on and he had no idea, but like I said before, Derick had no reason not to trust me and he loved me and didn’t believe I could be so heartless. He told me that if I promised never to see Hamid again that he would stay with me and it would be ok. I told him I couldn’t do that.

Derick moved out—he never told our friends the real reason for our break-up, but it didn’t matter. All of our mutual friends stopped talking to me. They told me that after we broke up they saw Derick first so they felt they should be on his side. I didn’t understand. I’m an extremely loyal friend and it made no sense that you couldn’t remain friends with both parties. It really fucked me up. More than anyone really understood. I felt so guilty, worried, paranoid that now I deserved that I deserved horrible things to happen to me they would, and I felt hurt and abandoned by people who I had spent years with, people who I thought cared about me. Derick was so nice and gentle to me about it as well which made my guilt so much worse.

I moved to the same town as Hamid and things just went along. I became more bitter and worried. My guilt and anger at myself would seep out of me and I would cry and break down or get angry. When we were first together Hamid was like a mystery. He never showed much emotion, but I believed I was the person that could open him up, make him feel safe enough to show me his feelings. I convinced myself that underneath his stoic exterior he was really so sweet and loving. He would tell me things about himself—secrets, fears, sad events, his dreams, passions, and what he loved. He told me how he was scared of me leaving him, me getting bored with being around him, and then he just….stopped. I don’t know if it was just a plateau or if I had come to see that Hamid didn’t have the ability to really love someone. He couldn’t understand feelings or emotions. He didn’t understand that not getting anything for my birthday—not even a card, was a shitty thing. He thought that he was being sensible. He told me I was insatiable, couldn’t be happy, always had to find something to be upset about. He said we were both difficult people for others to date. That he and I were hard people to love.

We both applied to law school, he would be in Dallas at SMU, and I would be in Tucson at the University of Arizona. I was reluctant, but Hamid wanted us to do the long distance thing. Then all of a sudden he ended up getting a job in Austin. He decided he would rather do that and within a month he had moved there. I was heartbroken. I was finally left completely alone. I was scared, friendless, constantly sad and worried, while he was happy to be living in the town he always wanted to—with friends, people that he knew through work. I was willing to do whatever needed to be done to make him happy. I would drive there at the drop of a dime if he asked me to. In July, before I moved to Tucson, I went to stay with him for two weeks. It was so amazing. All of my fears and worries disappeared. Seeing him and seeing how happy he was to see me made me realize that the distance wasn’t a problem—in fact it made our time together so fulfilling and perfect. I spent the fourth of July there and we watched fireworks, I was there for his birthday and we went to every place that he wanted to try in Austin but didn’t have someone to go with. It honestly felt magical. He cried when I left.

Then I moved to Tucson and Hamid casually broke up with me. He told me he loved me, he wished he could lead two separate lives so I could still be with him, he wished he could put me under his bed in a box and do his own thing and then take me out when he was done, but he wanted to be alone in Austin. I was shell-shocked. I had moved by myself to Tucson. I didn’t know a single person here, had never even visited before, and I had already lost a whole group of friends, and a 10 year relationship with someone who actually loved me all so Hamid could build up his ego before going to find someone better in a better town.

He visited me in October and it was like nothing changed. Things were good, he was happy to be with me, he was sweet and loving. When I dropped him off at the airport he was crying so hard I had to go to the cell lot so he could let it out and compose himself before walking in. He told me he loved me, he missed me so much, he needed to see me again, he promised we would see each other again. We never did.

It’s been about a year-and-a half since I last saw Hamid, longer since he broke up with me, and even long since he left me alone and moved to Austin. I’ve never recovered. I can’t forget any of it. I constantly replay every situation, every memory in my mind. Almost everything I hear or see relates back to Hamid in some way. It’s fucking horrible. I can’t get my brain to turn that off. I understand why auditory schizophrenics kill themselves. . For awhile I couldn’t eat and I dropped down to 95 pounds. I would cut myself, started pulling out hair, and got so close to killing myself that I wrote out a will and my last wishes. I’ve done therapy, taken different medications, gone on dates, and focused on school or friends. Nothing has helped. I have never found anyone that I have been seriously attracted to, or even attracted to enough to have a slight crush. No butterflies in my stomach, no “I can’t wait until tomorrow” feelings, nothing to make me excited to go to bed so I could come up with dream scenarios. I’m not really sure if I’m ever going to be able to find someone else.

Derick has been with his new girlfriend now for almost two years and they live together. Hamid is extremely happy in Austin and dating a girl about five years younger—an interior designer who he tells all the same secrets and insights to, and he plays the same songs that he said were ours to, and I’m a fucked up, broken mess. I still cry weekly, I still have dreams about hamid and I wake up crying. I’m obsessive, and I can’t be alone for very long or I start to get so upset. I hate myself for being so stupid. I feel ugly and like a loser…I wasn’t good enough or worthwhile enough for Hamid to stay with me even though he “loved” me. I feel like a failure. How is everyone else so fucking happy? How did they move on?  I am not happy here, but I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have a home anymore or a happy place. Everywhere is filled with memories.

I know that if I went back in time I wouldn’t change being with Hamid. I know that I felt stuck and scared of only being with one person, and I know that I needed to be with someone else to understand that. But I’ve destroyed my life and I can’t fix that. I have been with the most amazing, loving man, and I’ve been with the most attractive, desirable man. How can anyone top that? I’ve never wanted to feel pathetic or like a loser. I’ve never wanted to look like a failure. It hurts to know that people were happy when Hamid broke up with me, that people are happy now, that even after telling people how upset I was/am they still don’t care. I realize that I will never be fixed. I have given up on hoping for those memories to go away and a new start. I still hurt myself and most days I’m not happy to be alive. It feels good to get this out there and share it with someone…and while it seems super depressing and melodramatic it’s the truth and it’s fucking real. Not everyone wins or makes it out alive. I know there are other people who have hurt this much, are hurting this much, or will one day hurt this much, and it’s fucking terrible to feel so alone. I wanted to share this so that other people know they aren’t alone in feeling like this. I share these feelings and desires with you. I hope you find love and happiness. I hope my story resonates with someone or at least makes you think about what you really want out of life. Thanks for letting me share this part of my life with you and letting me totally vent. XOXOXO

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E MAIL ME @ boycrazyalexi@gmail.com

write ‘make it YOURS monday’ in the heading (for videos)

OR ‘reader submission’ (for written submissions)

PS:

• follow me on twitter @imboycrazy

• call me and leave a voice message: 888 666-2045

(ask me a question, tell me a secret, or say something neat)

I LOVE YOU