Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Last night over an earl grey and left over Easter eggs, my pal uttered the following thought provoking or in my case, blog provoking, words: "all girls are crazy, we give a boy previews of our crazy in the "seeing" stages of a relationship and offer tickets for the full show when the girlfriend/boyfriend label is slapped on".

In a state of confusion I nodded. Yes I agree, I am crazy. However, over a similar earl grey affair hindsight came knocking. Am I crazy? Crazy in comparison to who? Kate Middleton? Well okay, yes. Although, she married a prince, sun bathes topless and wears a kitten heel so, you do the maths. Amanda Bynes? Hell no, the day I get facial piercings and dye my hair a colour only describable as "shit" is the day I shall throw my hands up and confess to crazyhood.

I am, in fact, rather dull. My idea of a date is a takeaway and a film, I know which wine is my wine (pause for those shouting "urm, all wine is your wine alccy"), I only drink one cup of tea a day due to the fear fear of staining my teeth and I have been known to go to a car booty donning a bum bag. I do not attend underground raves on the reg, nor do I find the idea of parading my pins in a dress made of meat even slightly appealing. Although, if there is a George Foreman clutch included in the stylists wardrobe then I could be convinced. Convenience innit.

Wow, painted myself as some kinda picture there.

What was my point? Ah, crazy. Cray cray.

Every girl has contemplated what she did to make a relationship slide down the shitter. Ew. As the dumpee we convince ourselves that we have lost the loves of our lives, disregarding the claims we made at the start of the relationship which go a little like this: "he's not my type", "I can't see it going anywhere" and my personal fave "I'm just not looking for a relationship".

Then it hits us. We were the problem. We turned crazy. It was probably that pesky pill, yes, that's it, that pesky pill is to blame. Well, unsurprisingly to you, I am calling bullshit on it. Bullshit on the whole thing.

Girls are simple. If we like a guy (or another lady friend) we tell them. We flirt, we twirl our fingers through our hair and on the odd occasion we experiment with a new eyeshadow in the hope that it will make our eyes sparkle a la Kim K. If we want to see the object of our affection, we ask. If we do not like a guy (or another lady friend) we don't tell them we do. We do not flirt, we do not twirl our finger through our hair and we spend money on bar after bar of chocolate because, that too, can make our eyes sparkle. Now don't get me wrong, guys can be simple too. But, and here comes the scientific part of my monologue, girls are made according to a different recipe, sugar and spice and all things nice, you know the one.

According to certain scientists we as women create a chemical whilst, and how should I put this, exercising with a personal trainer. Humm, 'trainer' may be the wrong choice of word, let's change it to 'workout buddy'. That chemical, otherwise known as the cray cray chemmy, sparks involuntarily questions to pop into our minds, questions like 'where is this going?', ''does he like me?' and 'how long have I got before the bugger scarpers?'. When it comes to the apple of our eye, even when we try to keep it light, we inevitably end up in the dark.

Whilst these questions may appear crazy, they in fact migrate to the minds of all girls. Each and every one. So when you think about it, crazy becomes the new normal and Taylor Swift becomes a marketing genius.

Think about it, or don't. Life is too short to sweat the small stuff. Instead, understand that every thought that has passed through your mind, has taken up a residency in anothers.

B x

 *Declaration time, all circumstances are different, in some cases all of the above is utter rubbish and for that I apologise. Some flirt without intent, of course. Some play the game. And some are so god damn terrified of being rejected that they back off, or read their situation entirely incorrectly and act (never has this verb been more appropriate) out of character and do things we would never normally do. Guilty as charged on the last humdinger.*