The space between…

their ears is full of crazy.

What do all the girls named Melissa I ever knew have in common? Batshit crazy.  In particular, the one who worked for the company that managed my apartment. It wasn’t all bad:

  • she liked to undo her top when tanning.
  • she liked to tan a lot.
  • she didn’t like to overdress to play cards and drink beer after a long day of tanning.
  • she liked to dance around the edges of flirting with me.

But not so much:

  • She liked to dance around the edges of flirting with Chris, too.
  • Then banged Chris, not me.
  • Constantly messed with his mind.
  • Tried to mess with mine.

Melissa: What are you doing at my door.
Dork neighbor:  You asked me to come by.
Melissa: Oh I did?  Oh, uh, I was just on my way out the door.  Prayer meeting.

  • Was utterly unfamiliar with paying her share of a tab.

Melissa:  let’s go get sushi
Chris:  Yay! Maybe I’ll get laid.
Melissa:  Let’s invite your dork neighbor.
Dork Neighbor: Yay! Maybe I’ll get laid.
Melissa: No, we’re just buds pooling our resources for a great meal.
Dudes:  *Sigh.  No cooch for you.  SSDD.*
Waitress:  Here’s your $90 tab.
Melissa:  *crickets*

  • couldn’t do any social activity whatsoever without playing the goddamned Dave Matthews song above.

Our dogsitter/housesitter/kidsitter/pal Melissa is a whole different kind of crazy, but as a single mom/student/jobholder with 2 dogs, guest dogs, and a 10 year old, she gets a temporary pass. Especially since on of the dogs ate her stress management regimen for which she had to look a replacement from Budpop.

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