The More You Ignore Me, The Creepier I Get
*In a brave display of ridiculous injuries, I fell this morning on the bottom stair, well, technically, I fell on the baby gate on the ground. I heard a sickening crack and immediately I saw stars–no, not Christy Brinkley–and the pain was, well, hideous. I then had to army crawl on my belly to the kitchen.
Not perhaps one of my finer moments.
But to the ER I eventually went, dragging my friend P-Funk along for the ride. My foot is so swollen that it looks about to give birth, but they say somehow I didn’t break it. I’m holed up on the couch under strict orders not to move.
It’s fucking boring as hell*
Anyway.
So I left you hanging with Part I of My Own Personal Stalker, Milan, who had recently begun smelling competition and trying to mark his territory like a dog. Without the golden showers. Even I have boundaries.
He began impatiently phoning me, hour after hour wondering where I was. Which, I have to tell you, is probably the worst way to get me to call you back. I don’t respond well to frequent calls. The phone calls reeked of desperation, and in between leaving me messages alternating between threatening to ‘never call me again’ (um…okay) and begging me to call him back, he’d send similarly impassioned texts.
Occasionally he would even badly quote me some song that I liked, like Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing” (don’t judge, haters). Often subtle nuisances would elude him and be lost in translation.
This was always especially funny to me for some reason.
When I’d ignore both his pleading phone calls (Rebecca CALL ME BACK. Please? Pleeease?) and his text messages (The greatest love of you), he resorted to emails. Like his phone calls and texts, they’d start of innocuously enough and end rather mad. Since we both liked a lot of the same music, much of the email would be badly translated parts of songs.
Without a proper email to refer to, I will make one up:
“Dearest Rebecca,
In your house, I longed to be with you. I didn’t want to ever close your eyes or fall asleep, the greatest love of all time. I call you many times and you don’t answer. Your mom says you’re not home. But you’re home! I know it.
I sit here and you don’t call me back. Or write me back. Or text me at all. Or send me braille messages from Fed Ex. Or paint my name in the sky in an airplane. You are a jerk. I don’t need you! You don’t call me back and I will let you go! Fly into the breeze birdie, blackbird. We could have had something special but no! You ruined it all.
I’m saying goodbye forever,
Milan.”
It would go on longer and be followed up by another equally painful to read email, but you get the idea. He tries to be nice, gets mad at me, berates me, tells me that I suck and that he’ll never talk to me again. Rinse, repeat.
Was that the end? Oh, of course not. Rebuffed, he redoubled his efforts to woo me.
First, one day after I dragged my sorry butt home from clincals, exhausted and ready to hit my sheets, my mother said, “Umm, Rebecca? Milan has been calling. Can you ask him to stop? It’s unnerving.”
This pissed me off: I couldn’t have made my stance more clear. If I don’t respond to you in any way, normal people would tend to take that as a sign that mayhap they should back the hell off. But no, it appeared that I was going to have to make my feelings known. Angrily.
I marched to the phone, dialed his number and said, “Milan, you have GOT to stop this crap” when he answered. “I am in your neighborhood, I want to see you. I have been driving around for ages,” is how he responded to this. Figuring that this was going to be the only way to keep him the hell outta my parents house (and away from my son) I agreed to drive and meet him a block or so away.
I pull up to his car, get out, slam my way into his car and say, “This is creepy. You have to knock this off.” He smiled at me and looked bashful, but before I left he insisted that I tell him that we were still friends. Gone were the insults, the harsh words and in it’s place sat my old friend Milan. Who had driven an hour to my parents neighborhood to drive around and wait for me.
I’d have been flattered had I not been skeeved out.
Figuring he wasn’t likely planning to make my skull into an ashtray or a bong anytime soon, I left things at that. Stupidly.
The next email he sent told me all about how he could tell that I had feelings for him, that he could see it in my eyes when we spoke. I recalled that “feeling” being “anger” and left the email dangling. What could I say to someone who was as harmless as an ant (annoying, creepy, yes. Harmful? No) to convince them that I was not in love with him? Not much. So I ignored him, hoping he’d take the hint.
Then the flowers started coming. Roses, all roses, all the time. I could have opened a flower shop. Now, I do love flowers, but only from people I really, well, like. These roses made me feel gushy and gross inside. Like they were tainted with Creepy Eastern European Goo or something.
The following week, I walked back to the train with one of my cronies. Rather than sit in traffic, I rode the train to and from school, and it was easily the best part of my day. This day, I rode with my friend Laurie, and we were deeply engrossed in our recent Lab Practical results and were discussing it with gusto (told you I earned the nickname Super-Becky Overachiever).
We arrived at the train station and sat on the bench, still deep in nerdly conversation when I looked up. The train tracks in Elmhurst were huge, and had an underground passage that led from one side to another.
There on the other side, stood Milan, waiting for me and smiling goofily. THAT FUCKER WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE SUBZERO WEATHER AT THE TRAIN STATION. Which was like an hour from his house. Plus, I’d been TA-ing so this wasn’t my typical train. He must have been waiting for awhile.
Like this sort of grand gesture would mean anything other than a restraining order. My heart dropped and I got pissed off. He popped through to my side of the tracks and said shyly, “Hello, Rebecca.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I spat back. I was enraged.
“I wanted to talk to you and you’re ignoring me.”
“Well, maybe there’s a reason. I’m not interested in dating you, I already have a boyfriend, I love my boyfriend, and you’re being creepy! How long have you been waiting? It’s like 2 degrees out.”
He didn’t have much to say to that, just stood there smiling shyly at me. Luckily I was saved by my train, which I boarded after telling him to leave me the hell alone. I got a text later on saying that I must really love Dave, but to call him if I ever thought I could be with him.
Yeah. Right.
I haven’t heard from him in ages, I’m married now, and while I live in the same town, my name is different. I guess he finally gave up.
Hehehehe.
Poor man. I’ve never so thoroughly crushed someone’s will to live.
Oh Becky…
So did they give you anything for your ankle????
And yes, you win for the least threatening, creepy stalker. My cake stalkers scare me sometimes.
THANKS for finishing the story, even in pain! I feel so loved right now…
I want to personally deliver flowers to you. What’s your home address and when will you be home and alone?
Ahhhhhhhh. I creeped myself out typing “alone”. :}
You are such a badass. ‘Nuff said.
I love hearing about other people’s stalkers. Makes me feel more normal (because other people have stalkers too, not because I myself am a stalker . . . yet).
I’m glad you’re OK. Did they say you have a high ankle sprain? I bet that’s what it is. I did the same thing a few years ago (missed the bottom step – high ankle sprain) and it took eight months to heal! Not to freak you out or anything.
BTW . . . I was drunk when I missed the step, but I didn’t spill a drop of my beer, even while my broken body was splayed across the floor. I’m very proud of that accomplishment. 🙂
Not that you really want to hear this but soft tissue injuries can take longer than broken bones to heal. I’m so sorry – I learned this the hard way and I really am sorry this has happened.
Your stalker story is simultaneously entertaining and creepy as hell. I had one, sort of, but he was so stupid he kind of didn’t matter. Your stalker, though, eeeewwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!
Totally pulled off the cliffhanger. Nice Smiths ref 🙂
Oh I had a staircase (townhouse) for all of a year and I busted my ass on the stairs at least half a dozen times. I swear it’s like it was a trick stair-case, or the carpet was slippery, or I was just an uncoordinated and inebriated dumbass, but it put a hurt on me. Hope your foot heals quick enough to work for you, but slow enough to buy you a little off-duty time.
Becks – (and yes, I use that term as your new stalker, muah ha ha)
You beat my wimpy poet stalker. One thing (among many) really did it: my wimpy stalker wouldn’t have braved the elements for my love, such as it was. *Snerk*
I told my hub about this stuff and he seriously brayed with laughter. I think he would love to meet The Daver and compare notes, but he never said so. After all, he’s not Uncle Pervy. *Snarf*
I slay me.
You know this post reminded me of my for reals stalker psycho (not harmless Mr. Martinez) — the one who wanted to know what I’d do when he burned my parents’ house down. He still gives me the creepy chills; too bad I didn’t have a Bad Ass Aunt Becky in my back pocket to turn loose on him.
Did the doc supply you with some good drugs or did s/he tell you to try some deep breathing and visualization 😉 ?
My stalker was my friends girlfriend. We got along pretty well, and I was speaking to her in the car on my way into work. She asked me to skip work and come over for breakfast in bed with her..”noone has to know.” Ummmm NO. I told my wife..(who flipped the fuck out) and wound up having to tell my friend about her gf propositioning me…because the bitch wouldn’t quit calling..and coming to my office.
Take care of that ankle chic!
Wow.
I am wildly curious to know what he’s up to these days.
Aunty Becky–
I have found you finally. You’ve followed my blog thinking it was written by some Filipino Man. But it was all a plan to get you back. This entry has proven that you still think of me…
Yours Forever Through Eternity,
Milan
Now imagine if this was really him…Man, what a plot twist, huh?
This is some great S**T!
Anyway, hope your ankle is feeling better.
Ugh. I had one of those. When he wrapped his giant, pre-1980 Chevy around a tree, he blamed it on me. He said that he was thinking too much about me and lost track of where he was.
Hope your ankle is on the mend.
Great story, I am completely freaked out just hearing about it, let alone seeing that dude at a train station!
I, too, will NEVER call if someone begins harassing me with comments about the fact that I haven’t called. Goodness gracious, what’s WRONG with people?
My stalker story is way creepier, but not as fun! You suck. How you gonna have all the good blog fodder?
Sorry about your ankle! I hate stairs because I am clumsy as shit.
Thank goodness the stalker finally gave up! I’m laughing at how nonchalantly you “crushed his will to live.” LOL
hey I’m back and ok. missed you and you know I am not a stalker, LOL!
I had a real life stalker for years, sucked big time and was a lot more scary too. Milan sounds like he was a punk. Poor guy, wonder who he’s stalkin now?
see you soon aunt becky, glad to be “back”
Poor Becky! I fall all the time so I feel your pain. Though drugs would be good….hmmmm…
I cannot believe that jerk waited a train station in the cold. FREAK. I am glad he fianlly got over you…or so we think… 😉
Ouch, hon. Did you at least get any good pain pills? Feel better soon.
Wow – fantastic stalker story. If a little creepy.
Man, what a nutcase. You think he ever found a woman? I had a guy that sounded similar to him my freshman year of college, but that guy actually could have been dangerous. My friends threatened to call the cops on him before he left me alone.
I hope your foot heals fast! Sounds painful. My toe is still hurting but not nearly as bad as your foot must be.
I’m pleased that I am your new Milan. Becky, I would even love you with a busted, fat ankle.
I’m in your neighbourhood Becky. Hobble out and see me, or lose me forever.
How come I seem to be the only person on the planet who hasn’t had a stalker?
What a complete and total weirdo!!
I don’t think I’ve ever had a stalker either!
But I do not at all feel left out–(lol)
Oh good lord. Freaky flashbacks of a bad breakup — minus the roses, plus the odd phone calls. Thankfully I was a country away by that point.
Elmhurst, eh? I spent a few years in Evanston. I was born at Michael J. Reese.
I kind of think the wimpy stalkers are scary because you never know when they’re going to crack. What if he’s still keeping tabs on you, waiting for the right moment to pop back into your life? Maybe when you’re tired, or weakened…you know, like now.
Sweet dreams, Aunt Becky.
K, he was super creepy/freaky! I am glad he was harmless.
Heal fast girly, thinking of you.
I am sorry to hear about your ankle. I can totally relate. I woke up this morning with a GIANT cold sore that is about to take over my entire face.
It’s like totally the same thing as a trip to the ER and almost broken bones.
Heh.
I kid.
(Sadly, not about the coldsore.)
So, I appreciated this post, not because of your inspiring prose as awesome as it is, but because I seem to have developed my own personal stalker.
Some father of a kid who is in my son’s class has decided I’m his true love and sent me a BIG bouquet of flowers on Thurs.
I thought they were from my husband.
They weren’t.
If that wasn’t awkward enough, I know his WIFE. As in, still currently married. And she’s sick.
Nice, eh?
I tossed the flowers and pretended I didn’t get them. But still…if he calls or emails me I’m so ratting on him to his wife.
Facker.
Anyways, I felt the need to share this with my Aunt Becky cuz I know you are bored and love hearing about the mundane details of my life.
Heh.
Ack, he deserved it. Creepiness.
bwahaha! I loved this story….creepy, yes….but you made it so real. Poor guy. I bet he’s given up on love since you. 🙂
KC gets a scooter and you get a stalker. Man, my life sucks! I’m never gonna call you again… LOL
You could have spared the poor fellow and your family a lot of grief if you’d only TOLD HIM – in the beginning – what you ended up yelling at him at the train station – instead of IGNORING him. When someone is treated pleasantly and then ignored, No, they do not necessarily assume that there’s no chance for a relationship. They assume you are on the fence. But it seems you’re pretty proud of yourself, so congratulations?