So, in this week’s Mercury, we got a collection of stories, from our writers and readers—about love gone good (but mostly bad) and most importantly, crazy. Here’s one that didn’t make it to print, which is unfortunate, because it’s pretty good:

So, I would occasionally see this beautiful girl wandering the art department at odd hours. None of my friends knew who she was, and we didn’t share any classes but, by luck, one day I attended an open drawing session and she was there, pencils and paper in hand. During one of our breaks, while the model was out having a smoke, the beautiful girl jumped up onto the platform and, after striking a few unnecessary poses, asked the few of us sitting there if anyone was heading into Chicago for the weekend. There was a big art expo going on, only two hours away, but she’d never been there, and offered to drive if someone would go with her and help her get around. Coincidentally, my grandfather had just died, and I was planning on going to north Chicago for the funeral, to dance on the ol’ bastard’s grave, and to cross my fingers for some undeserved inheritance. We discussed some details and made plans to leave from the art building the next morning. Now, I did A LOT of drugs during college, before and after, come to think of it, but, I don’t think I could have been so spaced out that I would have forgotten an entire conversation. Somehow, this beautiful girl knew who I was, my major, and a few of my classes, and I had no idea even what her name was. It was a little awkward but, rather than do the smart thing, I chose to take on the role of detective, discover her name, and pretend I knew it all the time. Bad idea. There was nothing I could do to persuade her to show me her driver’s license, there was no information in her glove box, and the purse she let me hold onto when she went to the restroom held no clues. She was even nice enough to come to my grandfather’s funeral, but none of my relatives would play the “no introduction so ask her what her what her name is and then tell me” game. My mother told me to be an adult and just ask her with an apology, but we both knew that wasn’t about to happen. At the expo, she bought a book from one of the artists and asked to have it autographed. When he asked her who he should sign it to, I pricked up my ears, only to hear “you don’t know me and I don’t know you, so for you to address it to me like you do is insincere. Just sign your name, please.” What a bitch, I thought, yet brilliantly deceptive. After the funeral and expo, we began a relationship—a very superficial relationship, obviously—that went on for three weeks until the event i’m leading up to. Once you’ve exchanged bodily fluids, the option to suck it up and just ask for the name flies right out the proverbial window. She never told me her class schedule, if she was even actually enrolled. No one in the department seemed to know her name. When she called, it was always a “hi, it’s me!” My roommates’ attempts to find out were similar to a Seinfeld episode, only not as funny. She always came to my place, but I did trail her successfully one afternoon back to her apartment. No name on the mailbox. Anyway, after three weeks of this, and lame excuses why I couldn’t get her flowers or write her notes, I came home one night after a late class. I unlocked the back door, flipped on the living room light, and who was sitting there (in the dark for who knows how long, I may add) but… her! After the girly scream I let out, I wanted to yell “how the hell did you get in my house ,you crazy bitch? I hope you didn’t hurt yourself climbing in through the goddamned window, you nut job, and by the way, WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR NAME?!” Instead I gave her a kiss and a heartfelt “hey you, good to see ya.” “My name is Kimberly,” she said. A short, awkward silence (only awkward on my part, of course) followed, and then, the retort. “Yeah, I know your name, Kimberly, duh. What, are you kidding?” “No you don’t, and no i’m not, ” she replied. “You know, at first it was kind of cute, but after a couple of weeks it’s just gotten pathetic. You kind of make me sick. How long was this going to go on?” We dated for two years. Two horrid, manipulative, and unforgiving years filled with deception, anger, and cowardice. And in those two years, I never found out her parents’ names.