You know, frequently I do articles about spotting problems in women before they get a chance to piss in your Cheerios. I’ve done articles on the subtle and not so subtle indicators of borderline and other personality disorders. I have done articles on deal breakers with women, which also include warning signs about what to look for.
All of this boils down to one pretty central idea. The warning signs of high-maintenance and crazy bitchdom are always there. And I say this as a guy who has stepped on more than one relationship landmine without knowing I was in a minefield. Looking back, the signs were always there. Like screaming in my stupid face. I just wasn’t listening.
My alter ego, a guy named Dick Heart, was always distracting me. And let me tell you, EF Hutton doesn’t have fuck all on Dick Heart. With a single word he can make you not notice the smell of shit in an auction barn and he only shuts up after he gets you into trouble, which is pretty much any time you listen to him. Seriously, the warning signs of problem women are so numerous and obvious and common that I should not need to write articles about it.
The thing is that even if every problem woman in the world had a fucking skull and crossbones tattooed on her forehead, the Dick Heart that lives in almost every man would create a blind spot so that it remained invisible. At least till she started tearing your life a new asshole and making money vaporize. That is when you find yourself standing there, scratching your head, asking how the fuck did this happen?
Dick Heart, guys. He ain’t your friend.
I mean, really, there are so many warning signs of problem women that you can break them down into categories, one of them being comedy. How crazy is that? And like always, I am not just laying the blame on women for this. Our culture creates so much fucking bullshit in women that some of it is downright funny. And I don’t mean some lame, feminized ghostbusters funny that isn’t really funny at all. I mean Bill Burr, Sam Kinison, Bill Hicks laugh until you fucking cry funny!
Let’s take a look at some of the things that should A, make you laugh, and B, make you walk away with extreme prejudice.
One, she’s 30 years old and her bed is covered with stuffed animals. Guys, when you see this shit, look for the ceramic unicorn on the side table. Keep nosing around her stuff and you will probably find a ton of other reminders that a huge piece of her life is still resisting puberty.
That one ties directly into another that should move you to run a hundred-meter dash in under 10 seconds in the opposite direction. She baby talks. I mean, seriously, have you ever had a woman talk to you like you were a fucking puppy? Some of you reading this are old enough to remember when they made movies without being afraid of the feelings police.
Anyway, guys, a grown woman baby talking to a man she is having sex with is creepy. Imagine her, spread out on a pile of stuffed animals, wearing a teddy, making baby talk at you while she wiggles her finger at you to come to bed. You wanna let Freud take a shot at analyzing that scene?
Trust me, you don’t. It’s just too fucking weird.
Speaking of weird shit, how about women who hoard cats? The standard, stereotypical crazy cat lady became the standard stereotypical crazy cat lady for a reason. First, I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t do much for me when the first thing you notice about a woman’s home is that it reeks of cat shit. That one will even make Dick Heart do a double take. Seriously, give me a chain smoker any time. Or maybe a woman who has a meth lab in her basement. But the pungent smell of cat shit is the smell of crazy. It is Eue de fucked in the head. Bet on it.
I was just discussing this with a female friend, an actual non-crazy human being, and we were questioning how many cats it took to qualify a woman for crazy. We seemed to hover around the question on whether three cats crossed the line or if it took more than three cats to qualify as crazy territory, but we did agree on one solid. Any more than one litter box comes with a woman primed to be pushing a shopping cart down the street, talking to herself with a streak of lipstick running up the side of her cheek.
Full disclosure here. I am not a big fan of cats to begin with, but I understand why some people like them. The thing is, when your pets come in herds, you are not taking care of them. They are taking care of something missing in you. We all have holes to fill in our lives, but if you are trying to fill yours with nine cats, please don’t put another human in the mix.
By the way, just having one cat is not proof of sanity. I dated a woman once who told me that her cat had to approve of me. I thought she was joking till I figured out she really wasn’t. We didn’t have a chance. I decided to hate that cat before I ever met it.
Another comical giveaway on the road to feminine insanity is the selfie queen. And folks, if selfie queens were cats, the internet would be one great big litter box. There is nothing, and I mean nothing more revealing about a woman than a Facebook page crammed with self-snapped pictures of her pursing her lips with an absolutely stupid attempt at an “I’m so hot” look on her face.
There was a version of this that went on before the internet. When I first met my ex, she had a long table in her foyer that was sagging beneath the weight of framed pictures. Every last one of them was her. There must have been 30 or 40 images of her in different poses on the one table. There was her, sitting in her car. Her on the sofa. Her in the studio with her chin resting lightly on her fingers, gazing upward toward some enlightened state. Her sitting at a table in a local café, smiling cutely over a cappuccino.
She had actually created an early 1990’s version of a millennial chick’s Facebook page in real life in her home. The only thing missing was blue hair, tattoos, and a nose ring. Now, my actual brain should have looked at that with some concern about narcissism and self-obsession. Instead, Dick Heart looked at the picture of her on the beach and whispered, “nice tits” into my ear. I was off and running for the complete disaster.