Desperate Romantic: My Life as a Stalker (A Lamentably True Story)
10: The Reason She’s in the Tower
“You need to cut all the ‘knight in shining armour’ bullshit! Look, if she’s in a tower, it’s because someone has put her in there for a reason! She’s been put there because she’s fucking crazy!’
– Erin Gill.
I have been labelled a stalker once before.
About a year ago, I was seeing a girl named J-. We saw each other for about four months and one day, we had a huge fight. I wrote her a poisoned letter after it that hurt her terribly; far, far more than I had intended.
When I realized, I went to great lengths to make it up to her. She wouldn’t have any of it and threatened me with an intervention order if I didn’t fuck off.
I had bought her a dozen Delbard roses as a last-ditch effort on Valentine’s Day and delivered them to her place of work. Delbard roses are a French variety, grown in Columbia and air-freighted to Australia.
They are the size of a child’s fist. They cost me a fortune and I assumed, in the protracted silence that followed their delivery, that she had thrown them away.
Eventually, after six months of silence, she called me out of the blue and we sorted things out.
After discovering Eurydice’s stalker allegation, I called J- straight away. She works in a legal center and is a super-smart lady so, if anyone was qualified to talk me through it, it was her.
I explained I had read the government fact sheet whose definition of stalking was loose enough to include someone who contacts you every week. She listened to my tale and said,
“You’ve read the fact sheet, Jarrod; she doesn’t want to talk to you. Leave it alone.”
“I guess you’re right,” I replied. “Tell me, what did you do with the flowers I gave you?”
“I kept them,” said she.
“Did you really?”
“Jarrod, they were beautiful. I couldn’t throw them away.”
“Did you put them in a vase at work?”
“I took them home.”
“Did you really? How long did they live?”
“About seven to ten days.”
“So, you looked at those roses for seven to ten days and you thought of me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get my emails and my calls and the songs I sent you over iTunes?”
“Yes.”
“You never blocked me?”
“It was very hard not to answer.”
“But you did block me on Facebook.”
“Yes, but then I unblocked you, because I wanted to see what you were up to.”
“What about the three nights in a row I drove to your house?” (J- lives an hour’s drive from me).
“It certainly showed dedication. You’re not like normal people, Jarrod; you don’t give up. It’s sexy.”
“On that last night,” I began, “I asked you to come out three times and you refused. Then you threatened to call the cops if I didn’t fuck off. Does that mean if I had stayed, you would have eventually come out?”
“I probably would have.”
“J-,” said I, “Do you want to come over?”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
**
I have told this story to every man I know. All of them have looked at me with amazement and asked the same question, ‘How in the hell are you supposed to know what to do?’
Theme Park at its Darkest 
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