(Because you need a little explanation before you dive into insanity)
There are times in life when a person (who may or may not be me) finds out that the man she has been married to for the last fifteen years has been cheating on her.
During such a grievous event, this person (who, again, may or may not be me) might decide to throw sanity to the wind and ride the Crazy Train into Crazy Town.
While said woman is there, she might enjoy the scenery so much that she takes up residence. And after a while, she might grow to love her surroundings so much that she joins a Crazy Convent and lives there forever and ever and ever.
I should clarify though.
When I say she goes crazy, I’m not talking the kind of crazy where she needs a straight-jacket. I mean that she’s harmless crazy. As in, she dates-a-younger-gigolo-and-uses-a-vibrator-for-the-first-time. It’s the kind of crazy where she goes out and buys $10,000 dollars worth of shoes and gets Botox. And possibly gets laser surgery on her abs that she will never admit to in a million years. It’s the kind of crazy where she probably needs her credit card taken away and shredded.
But that’s the good kind of crazy, right?
Because everyone knows that there are good and bad kinds of crazy, just like there are good and bad kinds of fat. Her kind of crazy is like the avocado kind of crazy—the good kind. The kind a person’s body needs to stay healthy and strong.
These things may or may not have happened.
Okay, they did.
And it may or may not have been me.
Okay, it was me.
And every bit is true and then some.
Except the part about the convent.
I went crazy for a while, not freaking insane. I’m a healthy red-blooded female in the sexual prime of my life. I need sex. I would rather get shot in the leg and have a Brazilian wax every hour on the hour than live somewhere where there are no men. Seriously.
But I digress.
Hi. My name is Alli. My husband of fifteen years cheated on me with every female in a twenty mile vicinity who was willing and had a heartbeat. I thought about going all Lorena Bobbitt on him and chopping his dick off. But I didn’t.
Instead, I took him to the cleaners in our divorce and then I went crazy.
But it was the good kind of crazy.
And there’s one thing about the good kind of crazy… it makes for a really good story.
This is my story.
Welcome to Crazy Town. I hope you enjoy your stay.