Luis Suarez is like that insanely hot girl who's also insane

We all know the one. That one girl who is just drop-dead gorgeous, mythically good in bed, who will do anything on a dare—anything—can drink you under the table, has exciting tales of erotic adventures with all sorts of exotic partners. She can argue politics or sports or trivia, would rather do shots than sip wine, reads books but knows t.v., can cause a car crash in a bikini, sundress, or a pair of jeans, and, now, suddenly and inexplicably, she is eating you alive with her eyes from across a crowded bar as you struggle to swallow without looking terrified. Your imagination runs wild, remembering the stories you’ve heard of what she’s capable of and wants in the sack.


Lurking behind those curves, those voluptuous, impossible curves, is a demon—an unpredictable, psychotic demon who is just as likely to break out crying out of nowhere or accuse you of being just like her deadbeat, abusive dad, a shrieking banshee who will pull a steak-knife from under the bed and threaten to castrate you because she saw you talking to another girl. You try to tell her it was your cousin, but her paranoia only deepens and she accuses you of giving her an STD before collapsing into your arms, sobbing uncontrollably and promising to make it all better. And she does. And it’s almost enough to make you forget.

For a few weeks, maybe even a month, everything is wonderful again. She wakes you up in the morning by giving you—well, let’s just leave at “she wakes you up” and let your own mind take over. She surprises you at work with naughty texts. She cooks elaborate dinners. She’s exhilarating and passionate and fun. Mind-blowingly fun. Until…

You come home from work to find all of your clothes pitched out the window. Entering the apartment, you find her sitting at the window smoking a cigarette, with her makeup smeared and hair a mess, and she’s completely silent. Non-responsive. Just sitting there. Smoking. Suddenly, her head drops loosely towards her chest as she finally looks at you. s she takes another slow, bored-beyond-belief drag of her cigarette, you notice—is her wrist bloody? Is that your name carved into her wrist? What the hell is going on here?

“You.” Her voice is dead, emotionless, icy; her eyes are blank, glassy, dull. With a chill, you realize that you’re in too deep and, without a word, launch yourself back out the door and run helter-skelter down the street, panicked, not daring to look back until you’ve gone 13 blocks and end up puking in an alley. You realize that you’ll have to change your mobile number, get a new email address, disable your facebook, maybe even get a new job, so she can’t track you down. Because she will. She’ll stalk you and haunt you and track you down in any way she can. “Do I need a restraining order?” you ask yourself. “Police protection?”

Gradually, you relax and realize that you’re safe, for the most part. Just avoid certain bars or restaurants. You’ve had to drop a few friends who blame you for her downward spiral, claiming you should have been more patient and just given her one more chance, but that’s how it goes sometimes. You force yourself to go to the clinic for a blood-test or two every few months, just to be on the safe side. For as unbelievable as certain, exquisite moments were, you just can’t shake the queasy feelings that come up with them. More than one close friend suggested therapy, but you do your level-best to repress those feelings as you swear off crazies. No one, no matter how hot, you tell yourself, is worth it.

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