A piece is of the nature of conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued and neither party loser. -William Shakespeare

I remember years ago, when I was just a pudgy little middle schooler, there was a short stint when I was forced by my mom to ride the bus to school. Growing up on a tiny, affluent island where I lived right in front of the school, I had been spoiled by the fact that I never had to use any sort of school transportation system. But apparently, here in the dreaded north, things were different.

Those rowdy buses encased some of the worst experiences of my adolescent life. (They were right up there with joining track and that time I slid and stained my white uniform pants my senior year at FBA.) Listen, pubescent kids are terrible, contemptible little sex fiends. All they want to do is shave their legs, have intercourse and tease the nerdy musician who developed too quickly. Personally, I was forever the victim of paper theft. Apparently my hippie mom was the only parent who provided her child with a never ending supply of loose leaf paper.

Anyway, back to the retched bus.

I remember in the afternoons, when all the buses would line up in the loop, I would always frantically scan all the windows for my bus number. I always had this seemingly unjustified fear of getting left at school and kidnapped on the way to the front office to call my mom. I would scream, "I need an adult! I need an adult!" over and over again in my head as I visualized myself running for my life, in desperate search of a telephone. (... this is probably why I drink. And never sleep...)

But it turned out that the problem wasn't those proverbial ill mannered kidnappers. It was all the unwashed miscreants I went to school with. While I was making a very mad and determined dash from Mr. Almgreen's seventh period class to that disgusting bus I was made to ride home on, I was forever getting bumped into my overall clad, high top Fila wearing temptresses. They were obviously far too busy getting tongue tied with boys sporting bleach blond bowl cuts to notice the nerd narrowly escaping death! (I mean, really, was I the only eleven year old who watched America's Most Wanted? Hello, Adam Walsh?!)

And things didn't really change as I got older. I mean, sure I got thinner and eventually figured out the secrets to naturally curly hair (think of a shorter, slightly less attractive version of Kat from 10 Things I Hate about You. I was the girl who actually went to school to learn. Can you imagine...?) but the people stayed the same. I was consistently dodging make out sessions to make it to Mrs. Bavetta's class on time. (She is partly responsible for my obsession with the Kennedy assassination.) Always the first one in class, reviewing my perfectly highlighted notes from the previous day so I could be prepared for the discussion.

I had a few alleged "popular" friends that fell into two categories: They were either really smart and were in all of my classes or less smart and using me for help. But the majority of my real friends were like me: nerdy and smart but with cuter clothes. (I had long since reverted to Florida State game day tee shirts and Reefs.)

The thing is, even though I was the one to be pitied because I read for fun, took private clarinet lessons and didn't own mascara, the older I got, I actually found myself feeling sorry for those girls. Sure, they were gorgeous but I found it pathetic that they had to sleep with their boyfriends (or just boys in general) to somehow validate their petty existence. And for what? To be branded a slut when things turned sour? And you want to know what's really pitiful? That never, ever goes away. It's always a conquest.

The march of conquest through wild provinces may be the march of mind, but not the march of love. -Herman Melville

It's a weird thing, the power sex has over us. To this day, when I talk to my girlfriends, I wonder how they can't sense the conquest. How are they so blind to the blatant post coital neglect when it's so obvious? I want to scream at them, "He's using you, you pretty, little idiot! How do you not see that?" Or worse, we're women. We're supposed to be intuitive and in turn with people's feelings. How did you not see this nonsense coming? I mean seriously, have you SEEN the Jersey Shore....?

I'm not totally innocent of this however, my situation was kind of reverse. You see, I got burned. I gave someone the best of me for a long time. I was doting and submissive, a pretty little size zero doormat. Then I was deceived, broken and mislead by delusion. I was abused by my own loyalty and one day, woke up beside some behemoth neo Judas hell bent on hurting me. All the freaking time.

I spent the next two years taking out my revenge on every male I came into contact with. Regrettably, even the respectful ones who were incessantly sweet to me. But listen, I was so bitter that I didn't care. I was bound and determined to use and destroy every single one of them the way he had done to me. Why? For validation. To prove that I could, that I was worth something. (God, I know, right? Talk about girls being pathetic, said the kettle.)

The root of evil is not the construction of new, more dreadful weapons. It is the spirit of conquest. -Ludwig Von Mises

One of the men, I will never forgive myself for treating like garbage. He was a kind hearted corrections officer who held my hand while we walked on the pier. He rescued me from a scary hobo in Ybor, taught me how to play pool and still managed to take me out after a flat tire and bent rim. But my mindset was conquer and destroy. Hurt all of them the way one man hurt me. Why? Because I can. That's why.

And also because each conquest gave me power and validity. Each ignored text message and denied phone call gave me the upper hand. With each man, I quickly lost interest, somehow gaining this morbid hatred for all the men I came into contact with, despite how nice some of them were. With each seemingly innocent man, it festered and I somehow held this strange power over them. I had morphed into a tiny waisted succubus, feeding on the hearts and feelings of those poor, pathetic men that I inexplicably devoured. Because my ex boyfriend was a miserable, sorry excuse for a human being.

But while I was out on a revenge mission in those days, it seems like men have a different evil behind their mischievous behaviors. For men, it's all about conquering purely to satisfy their rabid sexual desires. Men have this inherent need to spread their seed as far and wide as they can. As such, they're going to bang chicks in a Sterling Archer and Mike "the Situation" Sorrentino fashion. And then they're going to throw on their Diesel jeans, hop in their Chrysler and go home to their lonely bachelor pads. Go to sleep with a bottle of whiskey. Wake up. Eat dry Cheerios. Repeat.

Moral of the Crazy: Now see personally, I don't like the term "man whore" because honestly, and you'll probably never hear me say this ever again, but it's not their fault. They have this innate appetite for ladies and a craving to procreate. (Or at least practice procreating...) It's like their God given right, in their DNA, you know? It's not their fault that they think with their organs.

That being said, women (and men) need to be leery of those individuals only out for one thing: the Conquest. He'll fondle you, then forget you. And while women are under the misguided impression that love and sex are connected, let me tell you something: THEY'RE NOT.

And then women get all bent out of shape and wounded because they thought they would win the guy by giving up the goods. First of all, it takes two to horizontal mambo. And B, that's like, Men: 101, friends. Once it gets intimate, they bounce. Like my homegirl Dr. Jean Grey once said, "Girls flirt with the dangerous guy. They don't bring him home. They marry the good guy."

So flirt with the dangerous guy but don't let him use you. Don't become his conquest because the good ones will go through the torture of actually earning your affection.

Just ask my husband.

The great social adventure of America is no longer the conquest of the wilderness but the absorption of fifty different peoples. -Walter Lippmann

The Crazy version of Dear Abby:

Need advice on something vital or love induced? Have some gossip that you desperately need to share? Want to swap idiot boyfriend stories?

Share your stories with me at: katemeyer@verizon.net with the subject line Crazy Face and be anonymously featured in my blog!