New Yorkers are categorically nuts. We’re loud, tactless, snappish, aggressive, and, judging by my own experiences, fucking vulgar. If you’re stupid enough to cut us in the dirty water hot dog line, we’ll wrench your heart out. And if you’re not playing perfect crowded subway defense, we will bulldoze the shit out of you for that vacant seat.
That’s what I love about us. Our brand of crazy is unaffected. It’s gritty. Our streets are abuzz with the sound of verbal battery because we deal with things on the spot. We don’t quell our crazy; we wail at you the moment you piss us off, for the precise, veritable reason you pissed us off.
Forthright crazy doesn’t bother me. Shit, I like it. New Yorkers’ frank volatility is what makes us exciting. Sexy, even. What I can’t handle is the cagey, baseless, I’m-Going-To-Unblushingly-Disown-My-Craziness crazy that I’ve encountered outside of the city. New Yorkers are systematically scorned for our crazy; but, I’m telling you, this new kind of crazy (new to me, at least) is absolutely gruesome.
Recently, my friends and I were kicked out of a party by a girl who is, hopefully, clinically deranged but, conceivably, simply ratchet. She’s crazy in a Get-Your-Skin-Under-Her-Nails-And-Then-Deny She-Scratched-You way.
My friends and I headed over to an off-campus party. Within a minute of our arrival, I saw Regina, and quickly learned that the abode we had sauntered into was, as it happens, hers. Now, prior to the incident that ensued, for all we knew, Regina was probably a tad jaundiced but, still, nothing short of lovely. After all, preceding said incident, the only interaction we’d had with her betided at a party back in September, where she made a small scene claiming that my friend, Lila, had been “shit-talking” her.
Some context: Last year, Regina dated my best friend Lila’s current boyfriend. This year, when Lila saw Regina—who’d been studying abroad last semester when Lila and her now boyfriend started seeing each other—for the first time at this party in September while we were standing in the bathroom line, Lila pinched me alerting me to Regina’s presence, and we scurried into the ladies’ room. In her drunken, retrospectively crazy confusion, Regina stormed off while we were in the restroom, loudly alleging that Lila had been talking smack. This, of course, was not true, but we dismissed the episode as one prompted by awkwardness (and, perhaps, some unsettled jealousy).
In light of the more recent Regina melee, we gave her far too much credit before. Again, my friends and I rolled into this party entirely oblivious to the venue’s inhabitants, but it didn’t take us long to figure out who lived there and how they felt about our presence. As I was taking off my coat, I locked eyes with Regina. In a brief but unbridled exposition of her marque of crazy, Regina then turned to her henchman:
“What the fuck are they doing in my house?”
Stunned by her brashness, I was almost convinced that she couldn’t possibly be referring to me and my crew. We were at the soiree for a maximum of eight more minutes before a mutual friend of ours started shuffling us out, apprising us that the party was moving elsewhere. We later found out that her intention was to shepherd us off the premises before Regina could throw her looming tantrum that ensued.
We were at the foot of the steps when I heard someone screeching behind us.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!”
The Crazy behind the noise was, to my stupefaction, Regina.
“Are you kidding me? We’re leaving. You’re effing insane.”
“I SAID, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”
Regina—with the same henchman ushering us out alongside her—proceed to thuggishly slam the door behind us.
The only cogent explanation for Regina’s outburst would be that she’s been fostering some violent resentment toward Lila who was not, by the way, even present at the scene of the crime. The clarifying Facebook message she sent Lila two days later told a decidedly different story. According to Regina, the incident had absolutely nothing to do with Lila or her boyfriend. Instead, it (and, mind you, her version of “it” is quite delightfully contrastive to reality) resulted from my friends and me calling her “a slut and other names” whenever we see her out – which, of course, makes absolutely no sense, if only because we’ve encountered her in a social setting a grand total of two times. Indeed, Regina claims that because we were being so unendurably rude to her, she had a friend “politely ask [us] to leave,” and when we barbarously protested, she felt it was her place to kick us out.
Oh, and apparently, we were also the snitches who called the cops, who arrived at her door literally at the precise moment she made a spectacle of shutting it behind us, on her party. Damn, you caught us, Crazy: I actually gave them a ring as you were booting my ass out.
Fortunately, this girl is almost as entertaining as she is certifiable. I mean, come on: shout out to Regina for providing me with some rich creative material.
And here’s the clincher: she’s from the outskirts of the city. Naturally.
Featured image courtesy of Lady Bud