The Spell

This neglected houseplant did not survive my encounter with the Attorney.  It cannot  be revived and  must be euthanized.  BETTER IT THAN ME, BUDDY!

  
       Well, that was fucking terrifying.  


     Or perhaps I should say, is fucking terrifying, because it’s not completely over yet.  


      I haven’t been blogging for the last few days because I have been obsessed, in spectacular and unhealthy fashion, with my encounter(s) with the Attorney.  


     Obsessed is a strong word, but I believe it is accurate and fitting. As in, obsessed to the exclusion of everything else.  As in: wait, what the hell did the last page of this article I’m reading say, again?  As in: if I don’t take my dirty clothes down to the laundry mat, they will magically clean themselves!  As in: my houseplants are magical houseplants that do not need water!  As in: the news (even with my beloved studmuffin Brian Williams) is nowhere near as interesting as fantasizing about my future relationship with this individual I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT.  As in: blog…?  Email?  Communication?   What?  I was supposed to bake cookies?  What?


        Basically: I wish to be alone with my bottle of Scotch.    


        My friends are freaked out.  Something’s gotten into you.  


        It’s been like watching a train wreck in slow motion, except that I haven’t experienced any horror or revulsion.  I saw it happening!  I fucking saw it happening!  I knew it was going to happen before it happened!  


        The Attorney has emailed or text messaged me every day since I saw him.  Every day.  He communicates with me even when I don’t respond, which is, like, the last four days.  


         Did I mention that I’ve known him for approximately four hours?  


         My analyst said that he sounded like a highly functional sociopath.  She also said that I probably wouldn’t stay away from him.  I was still unaffected.  


        It hit me this afternoon, when he texted me, yet again (his tone is always flirtatious): imagine what it would be like to break up with this person.  Imagine trying to divorce him.  Imagine a custody battle over children. 


        I thought of my father.  I thought of John.  I thought of the Surgeon, who, unbelievably, was the least weird and dangerous of all.   


        My perspective was instantaneously adjusted.  Three stalkers! Can I get four…?  Four stalkers…?  Going once! Going twice! 


       NO THANK YOU!  I’ll be damned if I go in to this quagmire and emerge three years later (and 100 years older), freshly damaged (and probably not sober) and barreling towards middle age.  


      Fuck that, man.  And if anyone thinks I’m exaggerating, you don’t know stalker controlling dudes.  Men like this don’t just let you walk.  They punish you for it, and punishing you becomes their default recreational pastime.  God help you if you have a kid, or even a house.  Or a futon.  John harassed me for months, after a restraining order, about a fucking pair of gym shoes. 


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