SPLAT

A year after my stalker saga, I finally opened up to dating. It wasn’t that my faith in the male of the species was restored, but my sister convinced me that I should avoid my path towards social freakhood and ostracism. I agreed to go out with a friend of hers. She had nothing but nice things to say about him.

I honestly don’t remember his name. All I remember is that he was really tall, knew martial arts, and was not blond. While driving to dinner, he confessed that he only befriended my sister to get closer to me. I think he was trying to flatter me. I found this appalling. Especially after all the nice things she said about him. It was an immediate validation of my dating sabbatical.

The rest of the night was so-so. I let him kiss me after dinner (Probably the wine). He asked if I felt the electricity between us. So cheesy. He really thought I was going to sleep with him. I knew this because after I asked him to drive me home, he called and cancelled a hotel room.

Dickhead.

Two weeks later my sister told me, SPLAT, he got hit by a truck. I Laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing. She got all upset. It never even occurred to me to ask if he was still alive. At least, not until she said he got away with only a few broken bones. I did wonder what kind of truck it was, if only for the visual. 

I can't even tell that story without a giggle. I guess I would call that schadenfreude (pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others). But in my defense, he really was a dickhead. 

Pretty through the Window

I never liked dating. But my general strangeness had already labeled me a freak and a bitch, so dating seemed like a normalizing step. Unfortunately, I was too preoccupied with school and personal projects to differentiate between passionate and obsessive. This was a problem. I wonder if I had payed more attention that I could have weeded out the stalkers. My Bad. 

Psycho Bob

My first stalker was Psycho Bob. I met Psycho Bob at a seance orchestrated to relieve the boredom of a high school dance. He was just Bob then. Bob was 6’1” with hazel blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and a damaged personality.

We dated for a year before Bob’s “psychoness” began to seep through. His love notes entailed passages such as keeping my dead body encased in wax. I am sure he thought it was romantic, turning me into a Bodies exhibit. I slowly became aware of his possessiveness, spying, stalking, and accusations of cheating. 

I decided it was time to say good-bye to Bob, but Bob, now Psycho Bob, did not agree. The attempt ended with his hands around my throat threatening to, “squeeze out my last breath.”  There was a sense of, Oh, fuck! Probably not as scary as waking up chained in his basement, but still. I somehow convinced him to let go. Then he said, “It’s not over until I say it’s over.” Typical.

I was starting university and decided I was going to be a Bitch to him until he broke up with me. Bitchiness triumphed! A week later I was Psycho Bob free. It was genius!  Or so I thought. 

He called me constantly asking for forgiveness. He threatened to let his fish starve because he was too depressed to feed them. Yes, his pet fish did die and it was all my fault. When that ploy didn’t work, he claimed to have cancer.  Miraculously, he was in remission a week later. Apparently, Jesus loves him. 

Once he finally realized it was over, he left hate mail at my house (which I kept), roadkill on my doorstep (which I did not keep), and stalked me around campus. He even ranted about me on university radio. Great for my social life (thumbs up). I should have sued.

It finally ended with a restraining order through the University.  

The Foreigner

After Psycho Bob (PB), I was understandably jaded. I decided to focus on my studies. The Foreigner overlapped with the tail end of my break-up with PB, my freshman year at university. Like PB, he had dirty blond hair and blue eyes (a sign), unlike PB though, he had a Ukrainian accent. The Foreigner was part of my small group of friends that met up after class, went out to eat, and mostly just hung out. 

After a few months, I started to get strange phone calls at night, mostly hang-ups. I assumed it was PB until I received a call with nothing but music playing. It was No Doubt, “Don’t Speak.” I had my suspicions who it was after The Foreigner started showing signs of jealousy towards my other male friends. 

I confronted him about the phone calls. I expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. I told him that if he wanted to talk, he could. The Foreigner then admitted that he had also sat in his car across the street from my house, watching until my light went out. 

Defiantly not okay. I made him promise to stop. He reluctantly agreed. Two nights later, I saw his car across the street (I must look pretty through the window). I walked up to his car and told him, very firmly, to leave. 

That was the end of that. 

Since then I’ve steered clear of the blond haired, blue eyed types. No offense.

Evil Bitch

I was writing a blog entry just a moment ago. It is about the boyfriends I have disposed of. I don’t mean dissolved with lye in the bathtub disposed of, obviously (although, I have been tempted a few times). I started going off on a tangent about getting hate mail, hate messages, and notes of general unhappiness.

You see, I keep my hate mail. I like to read them from time to time. You know, to gain perspective on how I’ve grown as a person. I noticed they have a reoccurring theme.

Here are some highlights:

“You are an evil bitch.” (Maybe True)

“You are so selfish.” (Sometimes True)

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” (Not True. I Love Animals!)

“If I died, you wouldn’t care.” (Probably True)

Could it be, that I am so awesome, that the absence of me makes them go crazy? Maybe, or maybe I’m just a crazy magnet. Probably a little bit of both.