Being the part in which I hit her with a baseball bat, and also in which I am still not banging her.

When last we left our hero (that would be me), I was standing in my bedroom doorway and staring at Fat Indian Bitch asleep in my bed. This was way over the line. Annoying and childish and clingy is one thing. Sleeping in my bed was something else completely. I was furious.

I stood next to the bed and yelled, "Hey!"

She stirred. Just stirred. She didn't really wake up. Again, I yelled, "Hey!"

Almost no reaction. I wasn't about to sit at the foot of the bed and wait for her to wake up in her own time.

I looked around for something to hit her with. In the corner right by the door was my baseball bat. It wasn't a real baseball bat. It was kind of a trick toy bat. It was plastic, covered with blue foam, and had a noisemaker inside it so that every swing sounds like a solid hit with a real wooden bat. Hitting a real baseball with this thing would probably bend it double.

I took my trick bat and jabbed her ginormous left butt cheek. "Hey! Get the fuck up!" Another jab. "Get the fuck UP!"

After the third jab, she was pretty much awake. I jabbed her again anyway.

[When writing this, I struggled with finding a word that would accurately describe this particular action but would leave Mark without a way to twist my words into a butt sex confession. I do not believe such a word exists. Jabbed is the best I could come up with.]

"Ok, ok, I'm awake."

"What the fuck are you doing in my bed?!?"

"Sleeping."

"No fucking shit. Really? Why are you sleeping in my bed?"

"You weren't using it."

"And what? You thought I wouldn't mind? Inco-fucking-rect." [Angry, frustrated profanity is the best kind, isn't it?] "Get the fuck out. Now!"

"Ok, ok, I'm going."

"Don't ever fucking do that again. Ever. Stay out of my bed."

"Uhh… ok."

"You still here? Thought I told you to get the fuck out."

Looking a little hurt, she slammed the door on her way out. As you may recall from a previous chapter, my bedroom door doesn't really slam. Just like it had done for me, the door just bounced back open. I closed it a little more gently and it stayed shut.

I sat in my crappy little folding chair and waited for my anger to bleed away. I couldn't believe she'd done that. Gross. I was going to have to change the sheets. A wicked little idea struck me.

I took the sheets off the bed, wadded them up in my arm and opened the door again. From my doorway, I could see straight into the living room where FIB was sitting. I said, "You still want to do my laundry? Wash my fucking sheets." I threw them on the floor and shut myself back in the bedroom. I stayed in the bedroom and listened. From what I could hear, the sheets stayed right where I'd tossed them.

I thought, "Oh, well. Nice try." I put new sheets on the bed, and laid down with a book. [Lied down? Lay down? I can never keep those straight.] I fell asleep not long after.

When I woke, I was quite surprised to find my bedsheets folded neatly in front of my door. I grabbed the pile of linens and closed myself back in the bedroom. Did she actually take them to the laundromat, or did she just fold them? Only one way to be sure. I very hesitantly sniffed the sheets. I was so afraid that I was going to end up with a big noseful of FIB fupa/snatch scent. They smelled fresh, thank God. She'd actually gone to the laundromat. Cool.

I went about the rest of my wake up routine without a word. To her credit, FIB realized that I was not in a talkative mood. She didn't even try to talk to me. In fact I don't think she even looked at me that night.

I felt pretty good about all of this. Maybe I had finally done enough. Maybe she finally got the idea that I was not interested in her and never would be. Maybe all of this was finally over. At least I was hoping for all of that. Yeah, it turns out none of that was going to happen just yet.

I returned home the following morning to find the living room was again FIB-less. "Un-fucking-believable. Bitch did it again," I thought. I opened the bedroom door and there she was… on the floor next to my bed. I thought back to the previous morning. I realized although I had implied a serious dose of "fuck off and die," I'd only actually said, "stay out of my bed." Sneaky little shit. At least she had her own blanket and pillow this time.

She got a boot right in the ass for that one. I planted a size 12 right on that same ginormous left butt cheek. This time she woke up immediately. "Get. the. fuck. out… Now."

"But I'm not in your bed."

"I can see that. Get the fuck out."

"But the dog keeps waking me up when I sleep in the living room."

"Not my problem. Get the fuck out."

"Ok, ok. I'll go."

"Let me speak plainly, FIB." [Of course I called her by her actual name, not FIB.] "Get out. Stay out. Never enter this room again. Never. Not for any reason. You understand?"

She gave one of those petulant teenage sighs. "Yes, I understand!" She stormed out. She did not close the door.

Well, shit. I'd been cold, harsh, even mean. I'd cursed at her. I'd told her repeatedly (both directly and using Lazy-Eyed Nottie and Lazy Roomie as intermediaries) that I was not interested. I'd made no secret of the fact that I was dating. I'd jabbed her with a damn baseball bat. I thought things were clearing up. After all, she'd stopped following me to work.

But now I was wondering if anything had really changed at all. Was I right back where I started? Shit.

Being the part in which you burst with anticipation, and also in which I am still not banging her.

So I made it through my entire date without a Fat Indian Bitch encounter. I'd returned home the next morning to learn that FIB was out until dawn, most likely looking for me. I holed up in my bedroom to nap for a while. When I emerged, my three roommates were sitting around the living room watching a movie. FIB and her sidekick Lazy-Eyed Nottie had apparently been awake for a while. LEN was looking as fresh as a flower. She was wearing different clothes than the day before and her hair was wet like she'd recently showered.

FIB looked exactly the opposite. She was still wearing yesterday's clothes. Her hair, which was long and very thick, looked like she'd slept on it and not bothered to brush it. It was very Bride of Frankenstein. Her eyes were red. I don't know if it was because she didn't sleep much, or if she'd been crying, or if maybe they were smoking weed. Whatever the cause, she certainly did not look like she was on top of the world.

Dickhead that I am, I couldn't help but gloat a bit. I was still feeling flushed with victory at having avoided her the night before. "Morning!" I said brightly.

Lazy Roomie smirked. "You know it's afternoon, right?"

"It's still morning in Hawaii."

"You know that line was never funny, right?"

"It still makes me laugh."

"Yeah, but you're a dork. You up for some football today?"

We rarely played actual football. That would require more than two people. We just went out into the road to throw the ball around. Rather than just playing catch, we added a twist. The road we on which we lived was tree-lined on the sunny side, so the snow never really melted until spring. The snow was a key part of the game we played.

I was definitely in the mood for some football, so I cleaned up a bit and donned a sweatshirt and my smoothest soled footwear. I played in a pair of slippers. LR wore the felt liners from his heavy boots. The game we played was almost as much fun to watch as it is to play, so FIB and LEN would usually sit on the porch and watch us as we'd slide ass first into a snowbank. There'd be beer and cigarettes, a few bruises and a lot of laughter.

After a few throws, LEN came out on the porch and sat down. FIB was still inside. I asked if FIB was coming out. LEN said no. So I asked LEN if she wanted to play. We'd asked them the same question many times. FIB always said no before LEN had a chance to answer. This time LEN said yes.

I really couldn't have cared less if LEN had played or not. My real motivation was getting LEN away from the house so I could pry some information out of her without FIB hearing us.

"What's up with FIB?"

She gave me one of those raised eyebrow "are you kidding me?" looks.

"Is she alright?"

"She's pretty upset."

"Over which part?"

"All of it, I think. You know she's crushing on you, right?"

"Yeah, I know. She knows I'm not at all interested, right?"

"No, I don't think she knows that."

"How can she not know?"

"Well, maybe she knows and she's just hoping she can win you over."

"That'll never happen, but whatever. What did you two do last night?"

"We drove around."

"All night?"

"Yeah. She went through an entire tank of gas. That's probably the only reason we came home when we did."

"So what did you do while she was combing the city looking for me?"

"I mostly tried to sleep."

"Why didn't you just stay home?"

"I didn't have anything better to do, and I didn't want to be home alone."

No one spoke for a few minutes. LR broke the silence by asking LEN, "Do you think FIB is going to leave him alone now?"

"I really have no idea. I can't figure her out. I think we're just going to have to wait and see."

And indeed we did.

The rest of the day was a little awkward around the house, but we were all mostly laughing and joking by the time evening rolled around. LR and I were playing video games and drinking more beer. The girls were watching us and passing their notebook back and forth. Twice FIB tried to pass me the notebook to read something or other. Both times I just shook my head and pushed it away.

I thought I was sending a pretty strong message. At no point had I ever done anything to encourage her. I'd never expressed any kind of interest in her. At times I was condescending, sometimes even disdainful. And I'd just been out with a woman, with whom I spent an evening that did not end until the following morning. At the time, I felt there was little else I could do without being cruel.

My work week started on Sunday night. My usual routine was to stay up all night on Saturday so that I could get back into a weekday schedule. Because of this, I barely saw any of my roommates on Sunday. What little contact I had with FIB was friendly and completely normal. I went to work that night thinking that maybe it was the morning after The Long Dark Night of The Stalker.

I couldn't have been more wrong. When I got home from work on Monday morning I found LEN sleeping on the couch, but FIB was nowhere to be seen. This piqued my curiosity. I'd never seen one without the other. I stepped back outside to look at the driveway. FIB's car was sitting right where it always was.

Suddenly I realized where she was, but I worked it out in my head anyway. FIB won't let anyone drive her car, so if the car's here, she's here. She's not in the living room with LEN. She's not in the bathroom, kitchen, or dining room. The basement's too damp for sleeping, so she wouldn't be there. There's no way LR would let her sleep in his room. Maybe LR's not home? I listened at his door and heard him snoring. He's home, so she's not in there.

There was only one other room in the house. I slowly, quietly opened my bedroom door. Just as I'd feared, FIB was sleeping in my bed.

Being the part in which you are sorely disappointed, and also in which I am still not banging her.

So Fat Indian Bitch ambushed me on the way to the shower, and I told her I had a date that night. She said nothing, but was obviously furious at this development. Prior to this incident, I was unaware that people with ethnically very dark skin could flush. FIB disproved that myth quite handily. Within seconds her face was crimson with anger.

Choosing not to tease a tiger, I simply continued on to the bathroom. Our bathroom door did not have a lock, which made this particular shower the most nervous of my life. I kept expecting her to storm in with a knife. Or (eww) sneak in to spy on me. My mind was racing so fast that in spite of my attempts to simultaneously wash and maintain a ninja level of hyper awareness, I was still able to formulate a plan.

I was originally intending to leave the house around 7 p.m., but the new plan required me to dash out as soon as possible. As soon as I was out of the shower, I dried off and hurriedly dressed. I was out the door about a half an hour early.

I pulled out of the driveway and turned into the road at the same speed that I normally would have. But as soon as I was a bit away from the house, I floored it. About a kilometer from our house, I turned off on to a side road. I pulled onto the shoulder after a few hundred yards. I shut off the lights and the engine and I waited.

I didn't have to wait very long. About two minutes after I stopped, FIB went speeding by on the main road behind me. I waited another minute to be sure, then I restarted the car and drove back in the direction of the house. Where we lived, there were two simple ways to get back into the city: the quick way and the slow way. This was winter, remember, and the slow way is a twisting country road. FIB naturally assumed that I'd be taking the faster, safer route. Of course FIB didn't know that I left the house much earlier than I was planning.

I had almost forty minutes to get where I was going, so I took the backroad at a nice leisurely pace. I arrived at the restaurant almost ten minutes early. This particular restaurant is a Chinese place. It's a good place for a first date. The place is nice, but not overly so. The food is good, but not expensive. It's a cozy little place, and it has probably the best waitstaff in the city. And as an unexpected bonus, the place has a second parking lot behind the building.

My date arrived about two minutes after I did, although she used the front entrance. We didn't request a particular table, and I didn't choose a particular seat at that table, but through sheer dumb luck my seat was in the middle of the restaurant and looked out the picture window onto the street.

Dinner went well. I'd already known the lady in question for several months, so there was very little of that first date awkwardness. Well, at least not between my date and me. You can always count on FIB for a little awkwardness. Three times I saw a car that could have been FIB's pass by. Of course it could have been someone else, or even three different people, but I'm convinced that all three sightings were of her.

I explained to my date that FIB was almost certainly looking for me. She simply laughed and leaned in closer to hear all the good parts. Through our mutual friends, she already knew the broad strokes of the story, and she was delighted to hear all the details she'd missed. I was naturally quite relieved that she didn't run screaming at the thought of an obsessed, morbidly obese teenage girl running us down in the street. I was amazed at how cool she was about the whole thing.

We moved on to the next part of our date, a movie. We went downtown to an old theater where I was able to park my car at the end of an alley a block away. At this point I was pretty confident that FIB would not be bothering us at all.

We got our tickets and I bought the popcorn and we sat near the back of an almost empty auditorium. About halfway through the movie she leaned over to rest her head on my shoulder. I put my hand on her knee. It was nice. We were cozy without being too suggestive.

After the movie, I suggested we stop off somewhere for a drink. I guess she didn't want the evening to end any more than I did because she quickly agreed. We spent a few minutes trying to think of a bar where I could park unnoticed. She suggested that I park behind her house, which was only a few blocks away, and then we could take her car anywhere we pleased.

When we got to her house, she pulled in right behind me. Unexpectedly, she turned her engine off and got out of the car. She said, "Do you want to have a drink here before we go out?"

Heh, heh.

I returned home about 10:30 the next morning. FIB's car was in the driveway. I was a bit surprised to find Lazy Roomie puttering around in the kitchen.

"You're up early," I said. And for this guy, 10:30 was much earlier than usual, especially for a Saturday.

"Dude, I haven't been to sleep yet." Ah. That made a lot more sense than LR actually getting up before noon. "What'd you do last night?"

"I had a date."

"Oh. That explains a lot."

"What do you mean?"

"FIB came home at about 6 this morning. She was majorly pissed. She hasn't said a word to anyone." LR cracked his typical shithead grin after that bit.

I glanced into the living room where the girls slept. FIB was snoring on the couch. Lazy-Eyed Nottie lifted up from her spot on the floor to look at me. She stared for a second or two and then shrugged her shoulders. She rolled over and went back to sleep.

That look and that shrug seemed to say it all: "what can you do?" I didn't really have an answer for that. But I think at that moment she had a pretty good idea. I wasn't feeling particularly rested, so I closed myself into my bedroom to nap for a few hours. Sleep didn't come as easily as I'd hoped. I couldn't help but fear that my home life had suddenly become much worse.

Being the part in which I deliver a laundry smackdown, and also in which I'm still not banging her.

So there I was, letter in hand, stunned by the idea that Fat Indian Bitch was playing with my underwear. On this particular morning, FIB was awake when I got home. I noticed that she seemed particularly attentive to me as I came in the house. I assumed that she was eagerly awaiting my response to this new letter.

I had no idea what to do about this. I sat on the bed to think for a few minutes. It then occurred to me that she might have stolen some of my clothes. The concept of FIB walking around with a pair of my underwear in her pocket absolutely sickened me. I sorted all the clothes in the laundry basket into piles and counted everything. The last time I did laundry I washed everything that was dirty, so there should be the same number of pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. I couldn't remember what I had worn or when I'd worn it, but the numbers all matched.

Hopefully this meant that FIB didn't pocket anything. All that remained then is what I would say to her. Not having a better idea, I settled for a simple admonishment. I opened my bedroom door to talk to her and she immediately sat up in anticipation.

"Hey. Don't touch my clothes again."

"I was just trying to be nice."

"I appreciate the gesture. But don't do it again."

"Umm… ok."

"I'm serious. Stay out of my stuff. Don't touch my clothes."

"Umm… ok."

I retreated to my bedroom. I slammed the door a little bit, just for effect. The effect was completely neutralized by the fact the door frame wasn't quite square. The door just bounced back and stayed open until I closed it again. I felt pretty foolish, but the message was received. She avoided me for the rest of the day and she didn't follow me to work that night. At least I don't think she did. It's very possible that she was still following but was a lot sneakier about it.

The next morning, wonderfully, there was no letter. That day and evening were blissfully normal. There wasn't even a hint of her typical obsessiveness. I was thrilled at the prospect of all the previous weirdness fading away. I went to work that night feeling better about my home life than I had in weeks.

The letters resumed the following day. This new letter, folded neatly and placed on my pillow as always, was a long-winded apology for the laundry incident. I read the letter, then crumpled it and threw it into the kitchen wastebasket. I always meant for her to see me throwing her letters away. After all, I had a trashcan in the bedroom too. Again she asked what I thought of her letter. This time I gave no answer at all, not even my typical non-committal mumble.

This was on a Thursday morning, and Thursday night was the end of my work week. When finished with work on a Friday morning, I'd typically go out for coffee or beers with a few coworkers and spend the rest of the day running errands and doing all the other things normal people do on a Friday afternoon. I'd stay awake until at least mid-afternoon, then sleep in until around midnight.

This Friday was different. I went straight home to bed. FIB wasn't awake when I got home, so I didn't see her until I woke at about 6 that evening. Within seconds of me opening my bedroom door, FIB was right there to find out what was different.

"Are you ok?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm just fine."

"Are you feeling alright? I've never seen you sleep on a Friday morning."

"Yeah, I feel just fine. It's just that I've got… plans for the evening."

FIB correctly assumed that "plans for the evening" was a gentle euphemism for "I've got a date." This new information left her quite… displeased.

Being the part in which I'm still not banging her.

Fat Indian Bitch had just recently turned 18 when we found ourselves unexpected roommates. FIB could have been a poster child for raising the state's age of majority to somewhere around 25. Having her and Lazy-Eyed Nottie around the house was strangely reminiscent of 9th grade study hall.

At least half of their communication, both with each other and with Lazy Roomie and me, was in the form of notes. Sometimes they'd write their notes and fold them up, just like they're trying to hide them from a teacher. Other times they'd openly pass a notebook back and forth.

When these note passing incidents occurred, my emotions cycled between complete disinterest and open disgust. FIB would frequently try to get me involved in all of this note writing. She'd hand me something she'd written, I'd read it, hand it back to her, and speak my response. You'd think the fact that I never once wrote anything to her would be a sufficient hint that I just wasn't interested in writing notes. And that's where you'd be wrong. Not only did the junior high note passing continue, but things actually got worse.

She started writing me full blown letters. Nearly every morning I'd return home from work to find a neatly folded multi-page letter waiting on my pillow. At first these letters were pretty mundane. She'd chronicle the events of her day, especially anything I'd missed while I was working or sleeping. After a few letters, she started getting a little bolder.

She'd ask questions like "I haven't heard you talking about any girls. Does that mean you're single?" I never gave any response to questions like that. I didn't want to lie, and the truth is that I was single then. But I certainly didn't want to encourage her by telling her that.

So anyway, I'd get home, read my letter, then throw that letter into the trash. Normally FIB would wake up around this time, so she'd always ask me what I thought of her letter. I rarely gave any kind of real answer. Usually my response was something like a grunt and a shrug.

As annoying as FIB was, I really didn't want to hurt her feelings. She was only 18, and the constant stream of notes and letters made her seem even younger. Plus, the whole stalking thing had me convinced that she was at least a little unstable.

In retrospect, things would have gone a lot better for me if I had been brutally honest at the beginning.

One morning I came home to find my daily letter resting not on my pillow, but on my laundry basket. The basket was filled with neatly folded, freshly washed clothes. She'd taken my things to the laundromat in the middle of the night. After she watched me go to work, of course.

With more than a little trepidation, I read my daily letter. The entire letter was about my clothes, with several paragraphs devoted to my underwear. Did you catch that? While I was at work, Fat Indian Bitch was playing with my fucking underwear.

So now the cat was out of the bag. I now knew that Fat Indian Bitch had a monster crush on me for years. Maybe things had been weird since the day I moved in, but this was the point I really started to notice.

As a third shift worker, I relied pretty heavily on routine to feel normal. It didn't take much effort for FIB to pick up on my schedule. Work started at 10 p.m., so I normally got out of bed around 8. After a shower, I normally cooked something simple for "breakfast." Most nights, FIB would offer to cook me something. I didn't want to encourage her, so I always declined. But this wouldn't stop her from asking the next night anyway.

After eating, I'd wash my dishes and then loaf around until it was time to leave. It took me a week or so to notice that FIB and her sidekick Lazy-Eyed Nottie were always a little anxious in that time before I left the house. I finally noticed that they were waiting for me to leave.

The house that Lazy Roomie and I shared was a few kilometers outside of the city, so there was a bit of highway driving for me to get to work. Around here it's not at all uncommon for people to drive as fast as they think they can get away with. So considering that I try to stay in the same neighborhood as the speed limit, it's almost a daily experience that someone passes me at a much higher speed. After a few days I realized I was getting passed by the same car. That's right… FIB.

The reason FIB and LEN would sit around looking anxious is that they were waiting for me to leave so they could follow me to work. Well, sort of follow. Apparently I don't drive fast enough for FIB's taste, so she'd pass me and wait for me at work.

When I'd get to work, there she'd be, sitting in her car at the edge of the lot. Sometimes I'd stand in front of the building smoking with a coworker before our shift started. FIB would watch, stalker-style, until I went inside. God only knows what she'd do after I was in the building.

The place I was working is a department store. The store closed at 10 p.m., so we were locked in until our lunch break. When lunch time rolled around the shift manager would unlock the doors long enough for anyone who wanted out for lunch to leave. As I said, I'm a smoker, so I always wanted out.

During non-business hours, the parking lot lights farthest from the building would be turned off, so it took me a couple of days to notice that FIB was still in the parking lot. She'd just be sitting there a few hundred yards away, in the dark, waiting for me to come out.

My coworkers thought this was the funniest damn thing they'd seen in a long time. In fact, it was one of the guys on my crew that gave this girl the nickname Fat Indian Bitch. (See? It's not just the blog. My life was filled with cryptic codenames long before I started blogging.)

Anyway, they all thought it was hilarious. I was normally wondering how I might get a restraining order against someone who lived in my house.