On any given day, I exude a certain, socially-acceptable level of lunacy. While my mom likes to call it “special,” most people simply call it “crazy.”
Unfortunately for my love life, testosterone seems to be the catalyst for my craziness. I don’t know the actual science behind it, but it’s similar to spontaneous combustion. I’m a smart cookie, but I straight up crumble when I have a crush, especially with the added complication of modern technology.
Growing up, there wasn’t much damage that could be done outside of school. I’d sneak onto the computer late at night and try to muffle the dial-up sounds for the 20 minutes it took AOL to open. Once online, there was still no guarantee my latest crush would be anxiously awaiting the arrival of Stef3895 for some post-homework flirting. Now, the immediacy of text messages, snapchats, heytell, whatsapp, and all other cell piece nonsense completely changes the game. I have no game, as is; throw in an iPhone, and it might as well be a grenade.
Armed with questionably embarrassing past experience and an uncomfortable level of self-awareness, I often try to outsmart myself. When I start to recognize the all too common signs of my boy craziness, precautionary steps must be taken. Deleting digits from my phone is too obvious; instead, I like to do the complete opposite and give myself constant reminders of my stupidity. For the record, this doesn’t work.