Dear Psychopath

I’m writing this in the event I “disappear.”

That may sound a tad melodramatic, but, I don’t like where this is going. Where you’re going.

It was harmless enough, in the beginning. When the only evidence of your presence was your inane friend and connect requests on Facebook and LinkedIn. They gave me a laugh, as a matter of fact: Your repeated attempts to con me into thinking you were on a military naval base in the Middle East. The obviously doctored photos. Fucking hilarious!

I especially like the one with you and a dog in a field of flowers. Digitally enhanced, but not in a good way. You look like a corpse on a tear.

And then, you branched out. You morphed into an agent for the Social Security Administration (really creepy pic here, and one you’d used before), a student, an IT professional , a widower— so many fake personas. And, all with really creepy pics. Nightmare inducing, some of them.

And then followed the private messages, both on LI and FB. All in “broken English,” that I’m sure you thought was really cool. “I’ll fool the dumb bitch into thinking I’m a foreigner.”

But, I’m not a dumb bitch. In fact, you’re the idiot in this picture, because your messages all say the same thing. Not only are you a sick twist, you’re a lazy, sick twist.

I’ve blocked you repeatedly, yet you still keep coming. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what you want. What do you think you’re going to get from me?

I don’t have a lot of money, so that’s out. I’m on a sexual hiatus, so you can forget about that. Take this to heart: I have nothing to offer you, but witty repartee.

Too, I’m not particularly afraid of you, so getting off on my fear, is also out. Maybe, I should be afraid of you. What do you think? In your dimly-lit sanctuary-of-the-absurd?

At the end of the day, I believe there’s a chance you know me. Yet, if so, you would understand that you’re wasting your “time,” and move on. Speaking of time, you must have a lot on your hands. A lot. I take it you don’t have a job. Join the club.

Only yesterday, I heard from you, again. Truth be told, it’s gotten to the point where I enjoy screwing with your head, as you think you’re doing with mine.

Let me tell you something: I’m better at it. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you should read a few of my stories. But, something tells me that reading isn’t your strong suit. The only way I envision you is sitting in front of your computer in a dark basement. A cooling cup of coffee (your sixth), next to your mouse hand. You probably jerk off at regular intervals, like a ten year old boy who’s just discovered his dick.

Let me ask you: Do you snack while you stalk? What are your faves? C’mon, give. Flamin’ Hot Cheetos? Corn nuts? Gummy bears? Better you should go with something like pistachio nuts. Not as messy (watch that keyboard), and a lot better for you. You don’t want to cut your psycho life short, after all.

As far as your appearance goes, you may be fat, or thin. I have no clue. After all, what does a phantom weigh? Since your pictures are all dupes, how can I get a clear sense of the lunatic who thinks someone like myself makes a good mark?

I’m an out of work writer for fuck’s sake. I don’t have any Block Chain Currency for you, or bitcoin or any kind of coin.

Perhaps, you get off on my witty comebacks to your inane come-ons. “Hi, pretty.” Yeah. That’s original. “Please don’t report me. My parents will be so pissed.” So, you live with your parents? Uh-huh. “I just want to be with you.” This is the one that sets off my gag reflex.

So far, I’ve been able to put up with this because it’s all seemed so benign. Until the moment you popped up in a Facebook instant message from my sister-in-law’s profile. Remember?

That was especially stupid because you thanked me for accepting “her” friend request. We were already friends, dipshit!

And then, you asked how my husband is. By name. At that instant, my world shifted a bit and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

You’ve tried this move more than once, you pathetic son-of-a-bitch.

It’s one thing to address me directly in a Twitter message and quite another to pose as a family member. One who knows the name of someone very close to me.

Coward. This is what you are. “Who” you are, is a mystery. But, I have the unsettling feeling that we know one another. Or, rather, you think you know me.

You’ll be back. I know, and I’ll deal with you, then. But, let me tell you something, and please, let this sink into all the lobes in your distorted brain pan:

Maybe, we worked together, or hung out in the past, or I rebuffed your advances, or called you out on social media, or…something. And, this is why you keep trying to insinuate yourself into my life, my head,

Think long and hard about this. And, here’s why: It’s one thing to mess with me. I’m used to it and I know how to handle you. On the other hand, once you start bringing my family into this bizarro scenario, that’s when I go ape-shit on your ass.

Keep it up, and I will fuck you up. Because, if you’d read me, you’d know that, where those I love are concerned — I’m a gangster.

Later.

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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