All angel, part girl.

Since it is unofficial "Gross Out" week here, I thought I'd talk about my stalker. I used to date him, and back then, he didn't like me very much. But he persists in trying to maintain contact post-break up. He knows that I am not amenable to this. He does not care. Niether do I, not really. And that is why I call him, half lovingly, my stalker.

Below, for your amusement, recent IM flares sent up by my stalker, whom we shall call MHH. The interleaves are my interpretations, responses. And so on.

This, in June, 2007:

MHH: Nina.

MHH: Nina, I know you read my IMs. (correct, obviously)

(5 minutes later)

MHH: If you didn't, you would block me or change your username. (I've tried that. He finds me anyway.)

(19 minutes later)

MHH: I think about you all the time. All good things.

(2 minutes later)

MHH: Did you ever get married?

This is when I start shrieking and hurling furniture across the room. Why? The last time I saw MHH, we fought. He said lots of stupid shit calculated to get my to remove my underwear. One of them was "You shouldn't assume when I treat you badly, that I don't love you. There is no relationship between how I treat you and how I feel about you. I am a jerk, but that doesn't mean I don't love you." Six months later he sent me an email telling me he had gotten married. This is why I start shrieking when he asks me if I had ever gotten married. I was kind of ok, fuck, I admit it, I was kind of crazy about him and he behaved like a complete fuckwit during our relationship. I never understood why (until much later). The match would have been to his advantage. I am better looking, smarter, have more money, and all my chromosomes line up in neat rows. (More on this later).*

This, also in June 2007....

MHH: I really miss you. Can't we just talk?

(4 minutes later)

MHH: I have so much to tell you. Everything is going well for me and I just want to talk to you.

(7 minutes later)

MHH: I know you are there. I know you read my IMs. You know my email address. If you change your mind.


Nina says: You really want to talk to me because you want to tell me how great your life is and it has not even one little bit occurred to you to wonder how I am doing because you are sub-humanly stupid and willfully mean to people and also the most selfish fuckwit to ever jerk off into a... ok, ok.

This hit my screen recently:


MHH: Hi Nina. I have an extra ticket to see Joe Henry tonight. Please call me if you'd like to go.

MHH: (discloses number... as if!)

Nina says: Nice job, MHH. Mentioning an extra ticket is gauranteed to make me wonder whether you are still married, or indeed, if you ever got married at all. Also by mentioning Joe Henry, you are shoving my brain directly into the bad place, the place where I remember that song, the one I can't listen to without crying uncontrollably. (The song? Scar).



This, in August. I was in Peru. I thought I was hallucinating. So much coca.


MHH: Nina, sometimes I think about you and I think you are an angel.

MHH: Because talking to you is like talking to an angel. I know you hear me, but you can't say anything back.

MHH: I know you can't talk but I like knowing that you are listening.

I am an angel, all right. So angelic that five years after that last fight, I find myself at 13,000 elevation staring up at the sky in the middle of the night - and reading messages from you, when I am, in fact, half way to heaven. I might have cried. I was so tired and the sky was so beautiful and I was so lonely. I don't remember. But I might have.

MHH, in all of your flares, you have not once considered what you might be doing to your marriage -- or me.

MHH, for you to be within ten feet of your computer thinking of sending me a flare is adultery. If you doubt this, consider all the days, during our brief time together, we called out sick because the mere thought of prying our sweaty naked bodies apart was too painful to even consider. What was the record, again? Yes, I believe that's correct.

Nine times. In less than 12 hours.**

The fact that you are still flaring me, all these long years later, has everything to do with all that sex - and the chance that you think you have of getting more of it if you can just think of the right flare to send. MHH, people have gotten divorced over less. Get off the computer, right now, and go be nice to your wife.

Where was I? Oh yes. Regarding me... angel like. MHH, that's actually pretty close to what it is like - not because I am watching over you or hearing your musings, but because I am dead to you. You are married to someone else, and if I never mentioned it before, let me say it now: I find NOTHING less attractive than a man who is in a legally binding relationship.

Reader, I can't say I care really, about these flares. They don't change my life any. There is nothing he could say that would induce me to reply, not just because he is married, but because he is just not a very nice person. If there is anything that bothers me in all this, it is that Some Girl he is married to knows nothing about how ardently he has been trying to contact me all these years.

But I would be lying if I didn't admit that there is also a part of me that is glad I wasn't the only one who thought the one part of our relationship that worked was unforgettable. Because it was. Is. Even if he is part girl. (Calm down. Not really. See below).

*MHH has a rare genetic disorder - one that mildly feminizes an otherwise ordinary male. If this sounds gross to you, be assured, it is not. At first glance, he looks absolutely normal. Perfectly so. Then an hour later, you think there is something odd about him. Then you realize that his shoulders are on the narrow side. And his eyes are just supernaturally pretty. And, gosh, he has nice fingernails. MHH is not bothered in the least by this issue. When I gently asked him how he felt about it, he said, "I am part girl. So what?" He is masculine in general, so he is in fact, well, mostly normal. Except for the very very mild case of hypospadia, which was actually a sexual advantage in ways I will not describe... oh and let me just say... STOP. Do not google it. The pictures will upset you.

** Now you know: I am not a virgin. I may qualify for honorable mention for not having sex since someone else was president, but it is nonetheless true that MHH made a complete whore of me. I did not even know sex could be fun until... MHH. And his wonky chromosomes. Ah, bygones.