I've been cheated

A couple weeks ago a guy e-mailed just to tell me that I sucked. Now this is not an unusual occurrence, but just as I excise the complimentary stuff that people sometimes write me, I don't usually bother printing the hate mail either—what's the point? But this guy actually did have a point. He said, "Just because it happened to you doesn't make it interesting." So I was extra super-duper excited this week when something genuinely, certifiably interesting did happen: I got me a stalker!

I haven't had a stalker in years! My first boyfriend threatened to murder me and my entire family after I dumped him. He kept up a regular campaign of terror for months until I hightailed it out of state. He eventually either lost interest or found someone new to fixate on (poor girl!); I haven't heard from him in eons. The years that followed have been relatively drama-free—full of normal(ish) relationships that ended in normal(ish) ways. I thought my most recent sociopathic ex had stalker potential, but he proved me wrong! Good for him.

So I must say that I was caught off guard when I pulled yesterday's mail outta the box. See, a girl can't be too careful, so all my Dategirl mail gets sent to me care of the Weekly. I never, ever get stuff delivered to my house, but yesterday I received a nondescript looking white envelope with my name and home address neatly cut from a sheet of white paper and pasted on the front. I figured inside I'd find a flyer for a friend's band or an invitation to some freaky party or something. Nope.

Instead, I found this carefully typed note on a not-so-carefully cut half-sheet of paper:

I found out who you are and your column in the Seattle Weekly is a total piece of shit. You're about as qualified to give advice about dating and relationships as Jeffrey Dahmer. Funny about you and your dumbass friends eating crappy food in Spain. Only a provincial idiot like you would eat Italian food in Spain! Are you some dumb Irish girl from the sticks of Pennsylvania or something? That's so reflective of your lousy judgment. . . . [Blah, blah, blah, I'll skip ahead to the funny part.] Whatever you studied in college did not prepare you to give decent, psychologically based answers to people's real problems. Bet you think you're hot stuff and oh-so-smart to be paying your bills by spewing so much wordy clutter into the world. A fat sad old hag with a mustache, and probably with herpes, petting her cat and dying her hair in the sink every month, clinging to her hipster ideals (you actually watch porn—how fucking gross) and watching the world pass her.

With the information superhighway buzzing right outside everyone's front door, it doesn't take a genius to track another human being down. But whereas other girls get stalkers who send along cut-off ears or locks of their own hair, mine went to all the trouble of tracking my ass and then all he did was send me a churlish note castigating me for watching porn and eating Italian food in Spain! I must say I feel a little cheated.

Because getting a stalker isn't exactly an everyday occurrence at casa de Judy, I decided to mark the occasion by meeting a few friends for cocktails. Guzzling a delightful cabernet, I passed the by-now well-worn note around the table. My peace-loving vegetarian boyfriend volunteered to break the culprit's knees with a large wrench. My buddy Brant, himself recovering from a mugging, also volunteered to inflict great bodily harm on the person who was now being referred to as "Judy's Scum-Sucking Stalker."

Fueled by a coupla glasses of vino tinto, I visited my local precinct to find out if I had any recourse. As my stalker wasn't brave enough (like Madonna's or David Letterman's) to sign the note, the boys in blue couldn't do much. But they encouraged me to file a report, which I gleefully did. When I suggested hopefully to the officer that he might want to dust the note for fingerprints, he did his best not to smirk as he pointed out the wine stain and lipstick smear that now marked the missive. Oops. Anyway, now it's official, and you can be sure that I'll be wearing surgical gloves next time I check my mailbox.

No cut-off ears, please! Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

 
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