I don’t write these stories; they practically write themselves. Once upon a time, I attended a reputable institution of higher learning. While there, I met Mr. Crazy, Esq. We weren’t best friends and we weren’t lovers. One might categorize us as kind-of-friends, at best. I’ll explain how we met later in the story. Anyway, one memory I have from him goes as follows. On January 20, 2009, I was sitting in my apartment when he either called or texted and said he wanted to come over. I said no. Shortly thereafter, I heard a knock on my apartment door. I didn’t answer because I knew it was him and I didn’t want company. However, my roommate took it upon herself to answer and let him in. That was annoying. Well, almost seven years later, on December 26, 2015, he ramped up the annoyance level about four-million-fold.
That morning, I received a text from Mr. Crazy, Esq. saying, “Merry Christmas.” The holidays are a particularly irritating time in terms of dating relations because specimens attempt to weasel their dicks into the lives of others under the guise of happy holiday wishes like, “Why don’t you ring in the New Year with some old dick?” No, thanks; I’d rather watch that depressing Sarah Mclachlan animal abuse commercial on infinite repeat. This individual however, wasn’t a specimen, so I figured it was ok to respond back with a simple, “Thanks. Merry Christmas!” Now this is where the story starts taking a turn at the intersection of Psycho Boulevard and What the Fuck Lane.
Shortly thereafter, the doorbell rang, who could it be?
Thought to myself then started to shrug.
Got to the door, ding dong, who is it?
Mr. Crazy, Esq. had paid me a visit.
Things that make you go hmmmmmm.
This motherfucker showed up with a bouquet of roses, a bag containing steak, salad, salad dressing, and two potatoes, AND a SUITCASE! Yes, a suitcase. Where the hell was Chris Hansen? I was waiting for him to pop up out of the bushes and tackle him. I was speechless. When I regained the ability to speak, I said, “I told you not to come.” He replied, “You stopped responding so I figured I’d surprise you.” I asked, “How did you know where I live?” He said, “I Googled it.” There’s a word for this type of behavior: batshittery. I never understood the delusions of the male mind. “So you’re saying there’s a chance?” No does not mean yes. In fact, it quite literally means the polar opposite. Ask Webster.
I didn’t know what to do. So, I let him in because part of me felt bad for him. I should punch that part of me in the face. You know what goes with steak? Steak knives. And you know what crazy people do with steak knives? Hack up naïve princesses such as myself. Luckily, I’m intact and unhacked. But I could have easily been turned into MoMo filet.
I was in the middle of doing my nails when he showed up. After I let him in, I continued doing my nails. I felt no obligation to entertain when I had explicitly said I wanted to be left alone. He started making the food. I ate it, which again, was probably stupid because it could have been a ploy to anesthetize me so that he could hack me up with less resistance. Again, thankfully, no MoMos were harmed in the making of this story.
During dinner, I asked, “What’s the suitcase for? Are you moving in?” He said, “It has clothes in it.” I said, “For what?” He responded, “So I can change.” I questioned, “In the event of what?” Bottom line, he planned on staying the night. That very much displeased me. Here’s the thing: I’m not well versed in the ways of a madman, but wouldn’t it be more effective to gradually unleash the crazy? Like you already showed up in a very stalker-esque manner; leave the fucking suitcase in the car. Then, ease your victim into your deluded plan.
Meanwhile, in England, the guy with whom I’m in the preliminary stages of dating was flipping shit about the situation and demanding that I either tell Mr. Crazy, Esq. to leave or to call him so that he could relay the message.
I sought advice from my mom. I explained the back story. Her view was that I didn’t know what he was going through and he was nice enough to make me dinner so I should let him stay in the guestroom. I was surprised that she was endorsing this home invasion and I missed the memo about our home converting to a refugee shelter/halfway house.
I turned on Netflix because I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He was probably hoping for Netflix and chill, meanwhile I was praying to avoid Netflix and kill. He kept making an effort to converse, which necessitated the constant rewinding of whatever was playing because he was distracting me with unwanted words. He asked, “Do you remember how we met?” Of course I didn’t because it was of no consequence to me and thus not worthy of space on my memory hard drive. He said, “We were at [a fellow classmate’s] house party and you walked outside. I was staring at you and you turned to me and said, ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’” Sounded about right.
At one point, he was sitting on the couch and I was sitting on a chair. He pulled the chair with me on it closer to him and attempted to engage in physical contact. I quickly and unequivocally shut that nonsense down. Look, if you’re going to come uninvited with a damn suitcase, the least you can do is keep your hands off of me.
After watching three things on Netflix, he suggested another. I said, “No, I’m going to bed.” I took him to the guestroom and then locked myself in my bedroom. It later dawned on me that I had a box of bobby pins sitting in the kitchen. I need to do better stalker-proofing of the premises.
When I awoke, I went downstairs. He came down about 45 minutes later. I put on documentaries from Netflix. I was feeling a bit more conversational, but I was wondering how long this would go on. Finally, around noon, he excused himself because I had to leave shortly to partake in plans that I had actually agreed to. He made me hug him. I’m not a care bear. He squeezed me very hard, leaving me with one last annoyance before he departed.
Now, should you have any remaining doubts as to his delusions of grandeur, see exhibit A below of what went down in the text sphere after.