If you don’t stop stalking me, I’m going to call the cops. Oh, yes, you’re a cop.

Remember that gentleman of a cop who dismissed my ticket? What a freak. The guy kept calling and calling and calling. At the extreme, he called me eight times in a row, leaving eight of the same message. “Hey, Catherine, call me!” Same message, but different in intensity. “Hey, Catherine, call me!!!” “HEY, CATHERINE, CALL ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Loser, you don’t have to leave the same message eight times. I get the point. The point is that you’re a crazy-psychopath. Don’t you yourself lock up guys who stalk women?

Maybe that’s why I’m into guys who don’t call me all the time. At least I’m not being harassed!

OK, harassed is a strong word. But how would you define calling eight times in a row? He’s not being negligent, that’s for sure.

I’ll admit. I’m kinda crazy. Kinda kooky. I have a very bad temper that can be unleashed if I don’t get my way.

Rewinding the microfiche of Catherine Gacad’s history, I can only think of two times that could even remotely constitute psychotic behavior.

Flashback

One is when I found out someone I was with had cheated on me. He told me himself. I was shocked and started whimpering. Then I ran and locked myself in the bathroom. He thought I was contemplating something really drastic…we won’t even go there. But all I gotta say is…I ain’t gonna do any bodily harm to myself, you worthless, cheating, muthafucka. I was in there looking for some cyanide to spike the tea I was going to bring you when we sat down to have a calm, civil discussion. Honestly, I ran to the bathroom because it was the only other place in the whole flat that could be locked, creating some distance between him and me, without me locking myself out of my own friggin apartment.

Two is when I had broken up with one of my boyfriends. He started sleeping with someone else. (He was always very open and honest with me.) I happened to be at his place one day—the reason why I was there eludes me. But I was in his bathroom, saw ‘her’ toothbrush, and was so angered by the sight of it…I broke it in half, then set flame to it. Let me just tell you, the American Dental Association must put out some kind of safety precaution that mandates toothbrushes be soaked in flame retardant because I swear to God that toothbrush would not burn. After I got tired of lighting match after match after match, it looked more like I’d shoved the toothbrush up my ass than set it on fire. I think my ex even said something to the tune of, “What the hell did you do? Poo on her toothbrush?”

“NNNNOOOO!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “I TRIED TO BURN IT, BUT IT WOULDN’T FUCKING BURN, YOU WORTHLESS, CHEATING MUTHAFUCKA.” I collapsed into sobs in his bathroom. (I guess I like to have mental breakdowns in the bathroom, you know, just in case I gotta pee or poo or something.)

But that’s it. I mean, that is seriously it. I don’t go stalking guys and calling them over and over and over. And leaving the same message, “Hey, call me!” eight times in a fucking row.

Add another stalker to the line-up. Artie, you’ve got company.