I’m being stalked by a trichotillomaniac (a compulsive hair-puller) who keeps leaving tufts of her hair on my windowsills, in my mailbox, and all around my world-renowned monkey sphincter collection, and she also has an annoying habit of throwing bricks through my living room window with notes taped to them that read, “I love you more than a coprophiliac loves shit,” or “I want you as badly as my sphincter wants softer bathroom tissue,” or “You may want to start closing your blinds when you masturbate,” and every Saturday night, she throws a 1.75-liter bottle of Cutty Sark through my bedroom window, and written on the bottle’s label with a black magic marker is something like “Stop following me, you creep!” so — although she’s a crack-smoking, smack-shooting, gun-toting, Libertarian-voting, tax-evading, vulva-shaving, clit-piercing, sphincter-lubricating Amish girl, who has a penchant for pestering a certain highly intelligent (and surprisingly attractive) writer, whose name will go unmentioned (because I’m a lot humbler than most people would have you believe) — at least she has a healthy sense of irony.