"You don't understand megan--she does this quite often--that's why we're moving."

I’ve heard of psycho girls before. Every guy says he’s had one. No guy can say they really had a psycho girl. Not after what happened to me.

For me it’s like those letters to the editor of dirty magazines that start out “I never thought this could happen to me, but…” and ends slightly less funny. Well, I’m sure it’s funny for everyone else but for me, well just picture yourself in my shoes.

After blacking out at a party, I get a phone call the next day from a girl I don’t know. “Hey it’s Megan from last night. You said you’d promise to take me out to the bars tonight when I showed you my new fake ID.”

I don’t know any Megan’s and I don’t remember anything about last night, but I figure I trust myself and my drunk judgment, maybe she’s hot, what the hell. It will be like a semi-blind date for me and I’ve never had one of those before. I tell her it will take a half hour for me to get ready, but I really wanted to watch the rest of the Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes.

When she pulls up to my building, she’s drunk, but she’s cute.

“I’ve been drinking Vodka and Cranberries all night,” she slurs. “Can you drive?” She throws me the keys and I’m thinking ‘What the f**k’s with this girl?”

We go to the typical college bar. Puke on the floor, gummy bar top, broken toilets, you know the one. After a few shots and vodka tonics I’m drunk and she’s all over me. “You want to go back to my place?” I say and I expect a thousand balloons to come raining down on me and the bartender to pull out one of those kazoo/noise makers, put a cone-hat on my head and say “Congratulations, you are the one millionth person to use that line!” Instead the girl says “Okay, but you have to drive.”

One thing I never do, is drive drunk. I just won’t do it. Call me a pussy, but watch me drive sober and you’ll be sorry you said anything. I’d be lucky to get the e-brake up, I’m telling you. The funny thing is I have absolutely no problem getting in the car with a fucked up driver, say I have my shit backwards, but I’m still alive somehow.

“Ahhhh, you’ll be fine,” I say and we walk to her car.

I swear I have to grab the wheel a hundred times and I feel like I’m on a circus ride but we get home in a few minutes, and in five more she’s undressed and on top of me, totally porno queen style like I’ve never seen.

When I get her panties off, right off the bat I see I’m not the first guy that’s been down this road, if you know what I mean. Her nether-regions looked like a piece chewed up bubble-gum. I decide right then, noooo sir. Luckily the girl passes out before we do anything, and I knock on my roommate’s door, tell him everything and say let’s go to I-Hop for an hour and hopefully when we come back she’ll be gone.

She’s not.

Instead I end up sleeping on the futon and when I do wake up, she says “What the hell happened,” and I say “You passed out.”

“Ugh, I hate that, it happens all the time, I’m sorry,” she says and I say no big deal but I have to go to work. When I get back there’s a terrible message on my machine.

Since that day I’ve seen both Saw and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and still not heard screaming so sickening and terrifying. It sounded like a slasher film and what’s worse is I couldn’t make out what was going on. Just screaming bloody murder and doors slamming and a grown up voice trying to say something over it.

Then my roommate comes in, not the one from last night. “You have a girl over?” he asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“She left her glasses,” he says as he tosses them to me.
“Oh…and…she left these.”

He throws me a prescription pill bottle. It said Abilify on the label.

“Don’t bother looking it up, I already did. it’s for Bipolar disorder and Schitzophrenia.” It turned out it was her dad calling me because my number was the last dialed on her cell phone. She was 19 and lived with her parents and they were moving to Kentucky that day! After going all day without her meds she had turned into a f**king banshee and her parents were trying to track down her pills.

Finally they find my building. “You don’t understand, Megan,” they told me. “She does this quite often actually and we’re sorry for anything that happened. Don’t worry, we don’t want to know what you did, but, just so you know, when she drinks it’s not really her. We don’t know what she does when this happens but usually we find out later. That’s why we’re moving. That message you got, that was her screaming through her bedroom door. She tore down the doorframe and smashed every picture on her wall. Once she gets these pills she’ll be fine. Again, we’re sorry, you won’t hear from us again, I promise.”

And now I can say I’ve been with a psycho girl even if nothing really happened (thank God). I wonder though, how many Megan’s there are out there and we never even know it. I’ve upped my standards--that’s for sure.

At least until the next time I black out.