Look, there has to be something good about being with ‘nice girls’ when it comes to love/romance/sex (and all the things that make life worth living), but don’t ask me what it is. I guess, in a way, I imagine that prim and proper ladies must offer up some kind of steady calm in your life if you end up with one. And, chances are, they can soothe your frantic soul with their mellow ways, maybe iron-out your nerves with a soft sparrow-y peck on your cheek at the end of a sh*tty day at the office.
Hell, handing your heart over to a good, kind woman is probably the same as falling in love with an aromatherapy candle. It’s safe. It’s dependable. You know exactly what you’re getting before you even get the damn thing home, right? Night-after-night-after-night, it gives off a tiny glow and infuses your whole pad with cake smell. And then, sigh, you fall asleep next to it dreaming comfortable dreams where no one gets mad or slapped or cursed out. Or laid.
But effffff that. I love me some crazy women! And by crazy, I don’t mean crazy crazy. I’m not talking about women who walk around scratching their skin off and chattering to themselves in a mist of crack smoke or anything like that. Not at all. What I’m talking about are girls whose ‘craziness’ is defined by their absolute mystery. Those sassy street-smart lasses who are highly suspicious that you’ll turn out to be the same douchebag who does, in fact, live within you. Those gals with a slight attitude problem all swirled into a shot of hot-blooded swagger.