Let’s Read: Crazy Love

For centuries, romantic couples knew only eight “insanely creative ways to show love.” Finally, decades after fuck scholars had given up, Grace Edwards published CRAZY LOVE which promised “More Than 200 Insanely Creative Ways to Show Love!” There was only one problem. Grace Edwards was a liar– a stupid, corny liar with seemingly unlimited wealth and cobwebs where her genitals once were. We are about to wade through her landfill of bad, but very expensive ideas together.

Like all books promising X number of things, the real number of things is far less. About half of Crazy Love‘s ideas are a variation of “hire a servant.” Grace suggests hiring waiters, personal assistants, drivers, personal chefs, house cleaners, videographers, or sculptors as a romantic gesture for your lover. The other half are variations of “take a vacation” or “rent out a public place.” Expressing love the Grace Edwards way usually costs in the middle four figures and involves at least five strangers watching you. The few others, like this one, are just early signs of dementia.

So let me understand this correctly. I leave a bow out and my wife says, “What’s this bow doing here?” And then I act suspicious? I want to be absolutely clear I’m understanding this: I need my wife to be curious enough to enjoy the “Mystery Of The Gift Not For Her,” but trusting enough to think it doesn’t involve “Some Other Whore I’m Fucking?” And then, two days of strange behavior later, I give her a present and hope she believes this was all some backwards, ill-defined cuteness? This plan is fucking crazy. It’s something Timecop’s teenage son would do to outsmart his high school principal. It’s something Hitler would do to a prisoner to see if it was possible to erase birthdays.

Crazy Love was written in 2013, about ten years after the bottom dropped out of the “Dumbshit Little Tidbits For Dumbshits” non-fiction market. So this was probably a vanity project by a woman with nothing pressing to do after screaming at her decorator. I was expecting there to be some comical misunderstandings with how the real world works, but bitch, have you never blown your nose with a tissue? Unless you’re a manufacturing robot built by a scientist studying the nature of pointlessness, you can’t disassemble a box of tissues and put it back together. Have you tried this, Grace? Did you take a pen and have a fun time very carefully not poking through 1000 tissues while you drew little hearts? Did you clumsily mash up and stuff, at best, 15% of them back into the box so your sick husband could see the ink of your dumb hearts get smeared by his snot after he rubbed your hand germs all over his immuno-compromised mucous membrane? Have I made myself clear how bad this idea is, Grace?

Grace, find a fucking hobby. Anyone who told you this psychotic bullshit was romantic was obviously worried about what you were capable of if they hurt you.

That’s a fun idea!

There are many slight variations of this love tip, which is to identify something very ordinary your partner likes like coffee, beer, or flowers and then planning a theme vacation around it. “Behold, my love! We’re in Kyrgyzstan! Where they make the tube socks you get! And check the itinerary– we’re going on a tour of the plant where they process the beaver anal glands for the root beer float you said you liked on our 17th date! I! Know! It’s like a dream! You haven’t heard the best part: we’re visiting the graves of the kids who made that phone you’re always playing on! I love you too! You’re worth it!”

This is a nightmare. A subway ad about your love? Grace will spare no expense to make sure the maximum number of strangers are sickened by her and her husband’s relationship. She probably follows him to work, one car behind him on the same subway line to listen to the passengers complain. “Jesus, is this an ad for someone’s fucking husband? Who would do this? If you were writing a stalker movie, this is how you would show the audience she’s about to murder. What a creepy, obnoxious gesture by a desperate kept woman. I hope no monster ever thinks to do this ever again.”

She listens to the mockery… the complaints… the confusion… furiously moistening. This is her fetish. Knowing we hate them is the only way Grace and her husband can fuck. When he rides the subway home hearing strangers say, “I’m glad this nutbag isn’t my wife,” he grinds his teeth. God damn it, he can’t wait to get home and enter the disgusting, unwanted hole of his loving wife.

What I’m about to ask you to do may seem like an unthinkable torture, but try to imagine riding the subway and seeing paid advertisements for a specific husband. Not for a product he’s selling; only to let commuters know his disgusting love is precious to his wife. You hate it, it sucks. Then you get off, mind your own business up the stairs, and the crowd in front of you bursts into dance. Their leader, a beast bursting with unlikeability, looks right at you as she mechanically jerks. Long after your adrenaline gland has told you you’re about to die, a man behind you says, “Honey! Oh my god, no way, WHAT IS THIIIS!?” Oh god, oh fuck, it’s the husband from the subway ad.

Now, take a step back from this outstanding, delightful Internet article you’re reading and realize something: this story had to have really happened to someone. There’s at least one poor person out there who lived this.

Fucking why? Am I dating my twin sister in a POW camp?

Great idea! Go to a local sandwich shop with a list of strange ingredients and nag them to change their menu in honor of the devotion you have for your husband! And won’t he be surprised when you go there together and he orders a “Guy Whose Deranged Harpy Wife Won’t Shut The Fuck Up and Leave,” with light mayo and fries.

I wasn’t joking earlier. I am 100% certain watching people hate them is Grace and her husband’s sexual fetish. I mean, what makes more sense? That she wrote this book for couples to improve their relationship!? Ridiculous. Dog fuckingly ridiculous.

“Honey, I, uh, have a question. Well, more of a two part comment. The first part is: you went through my phone without asking. And the second part is this: I’m so happy for it and how much you must love me to do it! You even remembered the ringtone that holds a special meaning to both of us!” Grace, you nauseating ape, you write romance books like the closest you’ve ever come to fucking is getting a pelvic cast removed after a Black Friday injury at Build-a-Bear.

Hi, I’m the person who has already made it clear I think you’re getting sexual gratification from bothering others and when I read this I still screamed, “CRASH A WEDDING AND PRETEND IT’S YOURS!?” Grace, you unspeakable bitch, take the yearning you’re feeling from my hate and wrap yourself around a wild dog. Let it struggle and die slowly inside you. Take out a full page ad in a magazine with a picture of your husband sniffing its decaying remains on your panties under the words, “I love the rotting things inside my horrible wife! Happy 11th anniversary to Grace and to all the readers of Obnoxious Karen Monthly!”

Whoa, this one is great! Sorry about earlier, Grace. This idea of watching a TV show, one I’m a big fan of you say?, is a pretty amazing idea! It turns out you are a real expert on romance!