#07 This Is Why You Don’t Trust “She’s a Bit Crazy”

It was a Friday afternoon. I was freshly single, unsupervised, and doing what most recently heartbroken blokes do, back on dating apps way too early and pretending it was a smart decision.

I matched with a girl who looked fun and very attractive. She had her Instagram linked, so obviously I had a look. Solid range of photos. Beach shots, dressed-up nights out, a few casual selfies. Hot, confident, looked like she had her life together. No obvious red flags. Yet.

We had a mutual friend I knew well, so I did what I considered due diligence and asked for a reference.

“She’s cool,” he said. “A bit crazy, but loves a party.”

At the time, that felt like a green light. I wasn’t looking for anything serious anyway.

That weekend I’d been invited to a mate’s party hosted by a drinks company. Free booze, DJ, the kind of night that ends with regret and a fake cough on Monday morning. I asked if I could bring a couple of the boys, but the organiser said the guest list had hit peak testosterone and I was only allowed to bring women along to help even out the ratio.

So, I did what any logical man would do. I invited a dating app match I’d never met.

To keep it casual, I said she could bring a friend. We’d meet at mine around midday for a drink, then head in together.

She was keen.

On the day, I messaged at 11:45am to check in and make sure she was still coming over.

No reply.

Half an hour later she got back to me. Sorry, just woke up, still coming. The friend, apparently, couldn’t make it anymore, not that it really mattered.

Then the updates started rolling in.

First, she had to feed her dog. I mean, fair enough.

Then she fell back asleep.

Then she needed to eat.

Then she needed to grab a few things.

Meanwhile, I’m dressed and ready, standing around my house watching the party window close, so naturally I cracked a beer.

After a couple of hours, I suggested we maybe just meet there instead.

“No, no,” she said. “I’d really prefer to come to yours first. I’ll be quick.”

She eventually rocked up nearly three hours late, carrying bags of stuff like she was staying for the weekend. Not ready. No makeup done. Straight into my place, straight into getting herself organised, spreading her things around like this was already home base. I would also like to add, that while I appreciated a woman without makeup, she looked nothing like her photos.

I cracked another drink and did a line while I watched the plan fall apart in real time but decided to just enjoy the evening regardless for what it was.

Eventually, we made it to the party.

The first thing she said when we walked in was, “Please, don’t leave me.”

Which, considering we’d met a bit over an hour earlier, felt bold.

She stayed glued to me the entire time. I barely knew anyone there, but I introduced her around, tried to chat, tried to relax. Meanwhile, she was locked onto one mission. Taking the tiny mouse pillow of white powder from my wallet straight into the girls’ bathroom. Constant hints. Constant hovering. Like I was holding out on her.

At one point I ran into a couple of girls I knew from a run club and with her next to me, had a what I thought was a completely innocent chat. Later she leaned in and said, “They better not be cutting my grass.”

I wasn’t aware there was any grass.

A few hours in, it hit me. I’d completely stitched myself up. The party was full of hot chicks and great energy, and I was stuck babysitting someone I’d known for less than a day who was already territorial and way too comfortable with my stash.

In an attempt to turn the night around, I convinced the organiser to invite my boys. When they arrived, her energy changed instantly. She walked straight up to them, ready to party, then casually told them I wouldn’t let her have any unless they did. A surprise to me, considering that’s all she’d been doing for the past few hours.

That’s when I realised I wasn’t on a date. I was her supplier.

Not long after, she said she had anxiety around big crowds and wanted to leave. Which was interesting, given she’d willingly come to a packed, DJ-fuelled party, but whatever – this was my opportunity to get away from her.

Given all the babysitting and consumption of my drugs, I was sober so, I agreed to drive her back to mine so she could grab her stuff. I got the sense she planned on staying over and obviously that was not happening. I offered to book her an Uber, and said I was having a shower and then heading back out.

With contempt, she left.

I went back to the party and naturally sent it with the boys.

A few days later, I was counting the cash I keep in my top drawer and realised something was off. I’d had about a grand in there. Now there was roughly $400.

That’s when it clicked. I didn’t even feel angry. Just stupid for not seeing it sooner.

She'd stolen from me.

A day or two later, she messaged, “Heyyyy, hope you’ve recovered! Had such a great time.”

Of course you did.

Then she followed it up saying she thought she’d left her Prada sunglasses in my car and asked me to check for her.

I did check. I did find them. And there was absolutely no chance they were going back to her.

I told her I couldn’t find them and casually mentioned that someone had stolen $600 cash from me that night, so maybe whoever took the money also grabbed the sunnies.

Her reply came back instantly.

“Oh well. They’re just sunglasses.”

That was it.

No apology.

No shock.

No “that’s fucked.”

Nothing.

I just sat there staring at my phone while the whole day replayed in my head. The lateness. Turning up with bags. Getting ready at my place. The coke obsession. The entitlement. Looking nothing like her photos. It all clicked at once.

I didn’t feel angry. I felt like an idiot.

We never spoke again. I saw her once out later and we both pretended we’d never met, which honestly felt like the healthiest outcome for everyone involved.

Moral of the story?

If a mate tells you she’s “a bit crazy”, don’t take it as a personality trait. Take it as a Red Flag.