From the original article on December 22, 2008. Author: Chateau Heartiste.
Psycho stalker
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
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When you experience the love of many women you are bound to have an unfortunate run-in with a stalker. The formula goes like this:
Number of girls in your lovemaking career + Disparity between your higher value and the girl’s lower value = Odds of wild-eyed stalker ruining your carefully cultivated lifestyle.
Based on my experiences and the stories I hear from friends, you can expect one potential stalker for every 10 women you bed. If you’ve bedded 100 women without incident, the odds of the 101st woman being a stalker are still 10%, but in the bigger picture you are really playing with fire. Your luck will run out. Even worse, if your value is more than 2 points higher than hers, the risk of initiating her stalker module sequence doubles and the degree of psycho behavior intensifies as the market value differential increases.
Example:
1,000 girls banged + 5 point average difference in value = 99.99% chance you had at least one bunny boiling stalker in your life.
Glenn Close’s character was 5 points lower than Michael Douglas’ character, so the result was no surprise to any man who understands how the market works. What were the writers thinking? Glenn Close is a horseface.
To be sure, there are other factors that influence any one girl’s chances of having a psychotic episode on your ass after being dumped. If she came from a broken home, that will boost the odds considerably. Past or present drug addiction is a leading indicator of latent stalker issues. Flakes are especially prone to transmogrifying into crazy stalkers; the airheaded dippiness that annoys the crap out of you when you are trying to get your notch with her is the same mental imbalance that causes her to thrive on the manufactured drama of an emotionally explosive breakup.
Here are some warning signs to watch for:
What to do if you have a stalker:
I remember this time I banged it out with a chick who, in hindsight, met five of the bullet points I listed above. I made the mistake of replying innocuously to one of her many texts she sent throughout the following week. Two weeks later, on a Saturday night at 1AM, my doorbell buzzed. I jumped because my doorbell sounds like a cow being zapped with 10,000 volts. (If I could locate the wiring, I would disconnect it.) I could hear her outside, shuffling around and mewling for me to come to the door. I turned off the bright hallway light, locked the bolt lock and chain lock on my door, and peeked through the blinds for half a second. Her eyes were spinning. Luckily, I didn’t have a girl with me in my place at that moment, so I didn’t have to worry about explaining the situation. I went back to watching my movie, hoping she would go away. Ten minutes passed. Silence. Phew, she left. Relief.
At 2AM, the doorbell crashed against my eardrums again. Fuck the bitch is back! She must have rung all the doorbells in a spastic panic because my adjacent neighbor answered the door. I overheard their conversation. “Is [moi] in? ... I don’t know, you want to check? ... Yes, could I? I have these snacks for him.” He let her into the building and she knocked on my door. My heart raced. “I don’t think he’s in ... Ok, let me just try once more ... Ok, suit yourself, but people are trying to sleep.” Knock knock knock! I turned off the TV, computer, and all the lights and sat in the quiet dark, wondering if I should confront her or call the cops. No worse time to start a battle with a psycho chick than at 2AM. I imagined how a confrontation would go. She would cry and scream and maybe accuse me of rape as my neighbors gathered at their stoops to watch the drama unfold. No, I decided against it. She was unstable enough to cause a major scene, and if I could escape without being identified as “that guy” who has weird stalker chicks coming to his home in the dead of night, I would. So I played possum. I jumped into bed and pulled the blanket up to my chin, dreaming of happier times.
Twenty minutes later (although it felt like a year) she left. I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, to a bag of snacks sitting outside my door and a text from her:
i’m so sorry i don’t know what got into me. i’m erasing your number. i’ll never contact you again. best of luck.
I did not reply to that text. I noted with wry irony the “best of luck” face saving maneuver and then proceeded to show her text to all my friends later on. We scornfully laughed in that way guys laugh when we’ve dodged a bullet.
Update
Commenter PA wrote the following:
Half-seriously, how about this as the very last resort against a stalker chick, if leaving the country doesn’t work:
Tell her you are deeply in love with her, send her a new gushy Hallmark card every day, tell her that you see yourselves married, tell her that she’s special, call her at work about how she’s the most beautiful thing that ever walked into your life, and then break into sobs when you tell her that it’s been so long since you were touched when the two of you first made love.... and so on.
If nothing else, that oughta kill the stalker-love, no?
As I wrote in reply, this is the nuclear bomb of counterstalker tactics, and like with all weapons of mass destruction, you run a high risk of catching a lethal dose of fallout. *When* it works, it works perfectly. She will run to the hills. The problem is when it doesn’t work. If you’ve been an alpha for too long, you may have a hard time effectively simulating a lovesick beta. If it backfires, you are stuck with a stalker who is setting up a gift registry with Williams & Sonoma.
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