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Crazy Like That
What the h***’s happened to you? If you don’t mind my asking.
Oh, wait, but see, that is exactly my problem. The old you would’ve struck right back at my rhetorical question. Like the old you would’ve cared that I’d insulted you. As if the old you would’ve asked what you had done wrong.
I hate the new you.
I hate the way you apologize for everything. I hate how you wonder what you’ve done to upset me. I hate how you take every single one of my verbal blows and stand there. I hate how you know everything about anything; remember when you didn’t care about the Masters? I hate how you comb your hair. I hate how you button up your shirt all the way. I hate your contacts; you looked better with glasses.
You were better when you were you. When you were laughing with your idiot friends for some prank you just pulled. When you were joking around. When you ran your hand through your hair to make girls swoon. When you shoved your hands in your pockets to look cool. When you smirked at me and teased me.
Remember when you’d sneak out at night to see me? Remember when you still listened to that God-awful rap music you find amazing?
Remember when you yelled at me?
Most people don’t like others getting angry with them.
I’m not ‘most people’. Good God, don’t you see it? I miss you telling me that I’m being a hypocrite. I miss the way that you’d say—no, I’m sorry, scream—‘I love you’ at me when we were fighting just to shut me up.
You know what? I liked you better when you stood out in the rain without a jacket, not caring if you got pneumonia.
I miss that.
What the h***’s happened to you? What the h*** have I done?
If I left you tomorrow, would you stop combing your hair? If I sneered at you and called you by your last name, would you do the same just to annoy me? If I complained one more time, would you tell me I’m just an endless pit of me, me, me, me?
If I stepped out from under your umbrella and straight into a torrential downpour, would you follow suit again?
I don’t want you doing everything just to make me happy. D*** it—make me mad! Infuriate me! Drive me up the wall! I don’t care.
Neither do you, obviously.
You don’t care about what you’ve done to yourself. You don’t care that you are now the spitting image of that poster boy on the TV commercials. You don’t care that everything you’ve done that you thought I would love has actually caused me to hate myself.
How the h*** do you see this as a good thing? Tell me, please. I’m at a loss.
Wait—I take that back. Don’t explain. The old you—real you—needn’t have taken the time.
Could you just walk out in the rain again when it thunderstorms, not caring if you get struck by lightning? Please?
You used to be crazy like that.