Why choose one when you could have them all?
Veronica called me boy crazy like it was an insult, and I was. Every time I met a new guy, I would fall into easy infatuation, a giddy affair with a time limit. I wanted zero commitment. I wanted the fun and the thrill and to call it before things got messy. Sticky. I always skipped out the door before those pesky old feelings got involved and wrecked the whole train. I wasn’t into napalm. I was more of a rainbows-and-ponies kind of girl — I wanted feelings, but only the good ones. And good feelings didn’t last past three dates. After three dates, somebody inevitably wanted more. Usually, it was them. Every once in a while, it was me.
At that point, I didn’t skip out the door. I ran like my hair was on fire.
You’d think it wouldn’t be so hard to find guys who were cool with no strings, but this was shockingly untrue.
They would say they were fine with it, but I swear to God, at least a third of the time, we would hit that three-date mark, and they would profess their love. Date one would be easy, fun, always the best. Date two, I could feel those strings looming, hanging over me like a goddamn raincloud, but I’d just pop open my rainbow-striped umbrella and keep on skipping until date three when I’d get some variation of, I think I’m in love with you.
The last one was a perfect example.
As I had been getting dressed, he’d sat up in bed with eyes like the saddest beagle ever and said, I feel like you’re using me.
I’d smiled and kissed him on the forehead and told him I’d call him.
I never called him.
I know, I know, trust me. I wish I could let myself fall helplessly in love, but I’d done that once, and when it had ended and I had been left alone to put myself back together, I’d known without a doubt that love wasn’t for me. The reason: He had driven me crazy. And not the cute kind of crazy. The kind of crazy that earned you a restraining order.
Not that I was butthurt about what had happened — hanging on to things just wasn’t my style. I looked forward, not back. Forward was easy. Forward was fun.
No point in lamenting all the things I couldn’t change. Instead, I’d learned my lesson and kept myself blissfully unattached.
Once my lips were red and plump, my skin creamy and white, and my liner black and winged, I felt ready, getting up to inspect my reflection. My favorite black-and-white-striped bustier set off the tattoos across my chest with its sweetheart neckline, and I’d paired it with high-waisted black shorts with sailor buttons on the front.
I smoothed a hand over the wide finger waves in my purple hair as Ramona belted the last verse of the song, and I joined in with an air-guitar accompaniment that would make Lady Love proud.
Veronica swiped at the corner of her lips with the pad of her finger, inspecting her makeup. “Courtney Love was a badass. I don’t care what anybody says about her.”
“I mean, she was a hot-ass mess, but she got to bang Kurt Cobain on the regular. I miss him.” I sighed and sat on the edge of my bed to put on my red wedges. “They were like the ‘90s version of Sid and Nancy. Totally, terrifyingly romantic. That’s what love is. All-consuming, self-destructive, and absolutely not something I’m interested in experiencing.”
Ramona laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Shep and I aren’t like that, and you see us all the time, so I know you know better.”
I shifted my boobs around in the bustier to maximize my rack. “Yeah, but that’s not how I love. You know me. Do you really think I’m capable of doing halfway on anything? I mean, need I remind you about Rodney? I would have gone toe-to-toe with Satan himself to hang on to that boy in high school. This is the same guy who wouldn’t let me speak when that commercial with Paris Hilton eating a hamburger came on. Like he would clap his hand over my mouth and force me to be quiet until it was over. He was a psycho, and for two years, I let him torment me.”
“Ugh, fuck that guy,” Veronica said. “Even if he is a rock star.”
“Don’t remind me.” My face was flat. “If he hadn’t dumped me, I probably would have hung onto him like a barnacle. A screaming, psychotic barnacle. Can you imagine me on tour? I really would have been like Courtney — lipstick smeared and mascara running down my face when I ran onstage and shoved him because he’d banged a groupie. But at least the three-date rule came from the whole mess.”