If you attract what you put out in the world, I must be putting out some very crazy vibes.
I can say this with confidence, because I seem to have a magnetic attraction for batshit crazy.
I imagine that most people go to a party, meet someone and bond over the rugby score or a shared love of Chilean Chardonnay. Not me.
I walk in the door and I can pick out the crazy with unerring accuracy and make a subconscious beeline right for it. Think of it like Gaydar, only more Psychodar. Some people have it, some people don’t. I can’t tell you someone’s sexual preference, but I can tell you if they’re a couple of crayons short of a rainbow. This is easy, because they walk right up to me and start oversharing.
Case in point: The Alien Sex Fiend
About 5”9, wearing the nondescript uniform of the suburbs (chinos and a blue shirt), leaning nonchalantly against the bar, stood a man of about 35. Perfectly normal on the outside. A barrel of monkeys hidden behind his mild-mannered exterior.
I should have known the moment I saw him drinking a long, tall glass of Strawberry Lips. (if you don’t have this where you are, be thankful. It’s the alcohol equivalent of Indecent Obsessions’ vocal version. It’s described as gold tequila mixed with strawberry cream liquor.)
Regardless, I missed the cues, largely because I was fascinated by his ability to down the pink concoction like it was a milkshake (that would be Cue 1).
While I helped myself to a much more conservative cider, he kicked off the conversation.
“I work in a dynamite factory.”
This was not an ordinary opening gambit. I was intrigued.
“Some people have a life filled with challenges, but you’re one of those people who have an easy life. (PAUSE). That’s okay. They say that you’ve earned it.”
Who said that?
From here on out it was a swan dive into the rabbit hole.
“I’m sorry if I sometimes stop talking. I have to stop to listen to the Greys. If I ignore them, they just talk louder.”
Wait. What does Strawberry Lips have in it? LSD? Bath Salts?
“The CIA wants to kill me. I have to make sure that I can get from one side of house to the other in case I have to escape.”
At this point, I was done for, transfixed and unable to tear myself away.
Also, he was on his second bottle of Strawberry Lips.
“My wife was a CIA spy and she set me up to be kidnapped and experimented on.”
Grounds for divorce?
Let me contextualise. We live in South Africa, not South Carolina. The CIA have about as much interest in this small suburban enclave as a sperm whale has in a minnow.
“I may have to run at any time.”
Not, with that much alcohol in you, you won’t.
Then things went even too far for me.
“I can’t wait for us to have sex in the astral plane. It’s not cheating when we share such a deep spiritual connection.”
This was one cue I couldn’t have missed. I diverted to the bathroom and out the back door, stopping only to impress on the host that he would never, even under torture from the Greys, reveal my contact information.
A few weeks afterwards, I got a call from the party host with an update.
The Alien Sex Fiend crashed through his bedroom window, leapt over the wall separating their houses, barreled through their home, jumped the gate and ran down the road. Did I mention that he was stark naked and waving a bread knife?
I guess that’s why we have the phrase, stark, raving mad.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have told him to visit stopalienabductions.com to find out how to make a tin foil hat.