The story goes like this.  Her and I dated some time ago.  Somehow, we ended up by a secluded spot by a river and I got out of the car.  She would not get out of the car because she was afraid I would kill her.  I am a dangerous and unstable individual.

     Yet another bunch of ridiculous accusations.

     So why do they matter? 

     Well…

     Because not a word of it’s true, and I haven’t seen or spoken to this Debbie Hughes Maxwell in eleven years. 

     I wonder, why, if there was any such incident and issue, that getting out of the car would matter at all?  Seriously, confined space, limited mobility?  That’s a perfect place to commit a brutal, or even a non-brutal, murder!  And with this magnificent, secluded spot by the river, being “secluded,” no one would hear her scream, right?  
     Who drove there?  Me?  Her?  I guess we can assume that she drove away, since she claims to have stayed in the car.  So how did I get home?  I certainly didn’t live within any easy walking distance to any secluded spots by rivers? 
     Come on, give me some answers to these relevant questions!

     Character Assassinations shouldn’t be that easy these days, but apparently some people enjoy using whatever reaction you make to crazy bullshit like this against you in order to prove their point.  That’s why I like to take the wind out of their sails by being the first to bring crap like this to serious light where it can be dissected and made fun of when it’s not true.

     The fact is, I never dated this woman.  I did not have any sexual relationship with this woman.  I haven’t seen or spoken to her in eleven years, so why all this crap now?

     It must be because she saw my name mentioned somewhere, or read a blog and figured she could inject herself into the “news” again because she just can’t let go of that rejection eleven years ago!  What actually happened, eleven years ago, is that she called me late one night with important news that could not wait.
     “I’ll be right there!” she said frantically on the phone.
     When I opened my door, she was standing there out of breath from running up the stairs.
     “I have to tell you something really important!”
     “What?  What’s up?”
     “Hang on, let me come in and catch my breath,” she said, forcing her way inside and standing near the door.  “Mark,” she said, exasperated.  “I’m in love with you.”
     “What the Hell are you talking about?” I asked, confused.
     “Well, I’m getting older, and my biological clock is ticking.  I need a baby.  And I want to do that with you.”
     “Uhh,” I stammered.  “I just don’t even know what to say, but, why don’t you try having a baby with your husband?  Because not only can I not have kids, I don’t need to practice, either…”
     “Fuck you, you asshole!  God you’re a fucking piece of shit!  This was a fucking mistake!”
     “Yeah, kinda…”
     “I hope we can still be friends…”
     “Yeah, I think you just kinda ruined that…”
     I slammed the door, locked it, and sat stunned on the couch for quite a while.  I even sat through the frantic knocking several minutes later, and ignored the subsequent telephone calls.  I refused any and all contact with her.
     And I never heard from her again. 

     She’d been a friend of friends of mine, friends I haven’t spoken to since back then.  Outside of the group, I was only even around her a couple times.  Once, we cooked some Indian stuff, because I do enjoy cooking.  She rode along on a three hour trip when I had to go to Atlanta to sort out some things with a distributor I had down there at the time. 
     Lastly, she drove me home and crashed at my place once when I was fully well intent on drinking a bottle of Crown Royal and thought getting a DUI was a bad idea.  As she stated to other friends at the time, she slept in my bed.
     Apparently, the detail that I slept on the couch was unimportant.

     Eleven years is a long time… I remember it like it was yesterday.  How can my memory be so sharp about it?  Because it’s pretty damned shocking when a married woman, ten years older, taller, and larger than you are comes onto you without solicitation asking you to help her make a baby because her life sucks…
     Stuff like that doesn’t happen every day.  It sticks in your mind in a permanent, “What the fuck was that?” kinda way.  Even after eleven years.

     But I wonder.  Did this incident she keeps lying about happen before or after I cut off all contact with her?

     Enquiring minds wanna know!  Good God, woman.  Take that shit to Maury!  I’m *ALL* up for a LIE detector test up in here!  And maybe I can break a few chairs! 

     Of course, you know I’ll end this with the requisite punchline.  In this case, it’s rather obvious…

     Where is this secluded spot and by what river? 

     Because I tell ya, it really sounds like a cool place to take chicks…

     There is a major event, a denoument in the interaction between two people.  But instead of taking things as they are, the event and the arguments that led up to it are blown entirely out of proportion.  Lies are told.  People are rallied to an unjust cause.

     Next, there’s a retraction, or, rather, a private apology to the target.

     With time, everything gets worse.  The event in question becomes penultimate, a raison d’etre for an entire crusade — a crusade completely and entirely founded in bullshit. 
     And when that crusade goes entirely too far against a target, every single reaction becomes ammunition to use as proof of the validity of it all.

     It happens because someone is unwilling to take responsibility for the lies they’ve told.

     And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you know when it’s perfectly acceptable to say, “Fuck off, psycho!” and be able to step away with a clear conscience.

     [ This was a draft from August 2nd I should have posted. ]

     Around this time two years ago, I went out a girl who was pretty fun.  We went and had dinner, and ended up playing darts for a while.  Just an easy hang-out-and-have-fun kinda night.  It was cool.  It was actually the first date I’d had that wasn’t a total friggin’ disaster.
     She was sweet, she knew how to laugh, and was a pretty damn good dart player, too.

     I didn’t kiss her goodnight.

     But she said she wanted to see me again.  And so, we made plans to meet that Friday night…

     Later that night, she called me to ask why I didn’t kiss her.
     “I wanna take it slow,” I told her.  “I don’t kiss… just, well, not until I get to know someone.”
     “Aww,” she replied.  “Did you like me and you’re trying to do the right thing?”
     “I had a great time, and I’m afraid I went the normal route, we’d end up going too quick and screwing everything up.  Ya know what I mean?”
     “Absolutely!” she resonded, ecstatically.  “I wanna take things slow, too.”

     We made plans for Friday at 8PM.

     Friday came around, and we were supposed to get together again.  I was already working in West Knoxville, so I called her at 7:30PM and said, “Hey, you hungry?  We could maybe leave a little earlier and go grab something to eat.”
     “How did you know I as off work?” she asked.
     “Uhhh, because we made plans to meet at 8PM?”
     “Yeah… Uhhh,” she stammered.  “I think I’m too tired.”
     “You think?”
     “Yeah, I’m too tired.  Sorry.  Maybe tomorrow.  We can go to Barley’s.”
     “Well, okay.  I was out here anyway, just thought I’d check.”

     The same kinda thing happened twice more.  I got a little pissed off about it.  It didn’t make sense, especially after getting back online and realizing she’d blocked and deleted me from everywhere, wouldn’t answer her phone or anything else.
     I chalked it up to nutjob, and did the Pirate Word for Healing — NEXT!  (Kudos to the Pirate Chicks!)

     So one night, a month later, I’m sitting at Catscratch Jane’s with Diva, Susan, Robyn, Becky, Mitzi and Niki — the pirate chicks — and who should call but my dear stand-up queen.
     “Hey, Mark, I just wanted to see what you were doing!”
     “Hanging out with friends… Why?” I asked.
     “Well, I thought maybe we could go somewhere and hang out.”
     It didn’t take much thought.  “Nah, you stood me up a few times, and no, I don’t think so.”
     Robyn, overhearing the conversation, got a little pissed off and grabbed the phone.  “You stupid bitch!  What the f$#& do you think you’re doing?  I’ll kick your ass, you stupid bitch!  You don’t f$#& with Mark Steel!”
     I wrestled the phone back, but, of course, she’d hung up.

     In June of 2007, dear psycho decided to contact me again via AIM instead of the telephone.

hey nark. how are ya?

Who’s this?

it’s [name deleted]. Just wonderin what yer up to.

Not much.  Just hanging out.

sorry I did what I did a few months ago. wasn’t ready for a realationship. you scared me.

Howso?

you were different.

Howso?

i d’know. you were really sweet. i had too many things on my plate and you knew how to laugh. such a diversion.

Diversion?

fun. really fun. i just wasnt ready. and your hot.

Thanks. But… Okay, what do you want?

sorry if your busy i’ll let you go.

No, it’s cool.  I’m not busy, just wondering…

well i broke up with my boyfriend. just wanted to hang out and maybe get to know you better.

Okay.  Well, what, same place?  Bailey’s?

tommorow night? around 7?

Sounds good.  See ya there!

     But I didn’t bother going.  Instead, some friends and I sat around and laughed about it.  Sure, it was childish, but it was funny.  I figured, hey, it’s the least I can do. 

hey what happened to you tonight?

Huh?

you were supposed to be at bailey’s

Ahh, sorry.  I’m just not ready for a relationship.

what?

Yeah, I have too many things on my plate.  Take care!

asshole!!!

Thanks.  G’nite!

     Tonight, she called me.  Asked if I wanted to meet her at Barley’s.  I said, “Sure, you want me to pick you up, or meet you there, or what?”
     “Well, how far as you?” she asked.
     “Oh, it’ll take me twenty minutes to get there.”
     “Yeah, me, too.  So you wanna just meet there?”
     “Yeah, let’s do that!” I told her.  “Wait around the front door… if you beat me there, I won’t be long!”

     After we hung up, I parked my ass on the bed and died laughing. 

     Haven’t heard from her since.  Wonder if she got the not-so-subtle hint?  *snicker*

     Revenge is sweet.

     On April 11th, the Wildcat and I decided to move into a single-wide trailer out in the middle of nowhere.  On the 12th, the landlord, Janna Napier gave us a sob story about how she’s lost her job, the bank had frozen her assetts, her vehicle had been repossessed, and the only thing she had was this trailer.  She wanted us to take over the payments, and we agreed.
     She said she’d be out by Monday the 14th.  On Wednesday the 16th, she still didn’t have her things out.  I went over, and helped her carry the rest of out.  She left a ton of garbage, both in bags and in the floor.
     The Wildcat was sick, so it took us a couple of extra days, and finally moved in on the 19th.  It was filthy.  There was water all over the kitchen and laundry room.  Janna had said she spilled baby water over there, but even after cleaning it up, there it was.  The fridge and appliances were covered in goo inside and out.  The place had never been vaccumed or mopped.  Toilets never cleaned.
     “I’m sorry about the mess,” she said.  “But I’ve been living with my boyfriend for the last year.”

     On the 20th, the Wildcat was lying in bed while her daughter and I continued to try and clean and rearrange things.  Here came our landlord, silent, not saying award, on the verge of tears.  She just stood there in the middle of the place, looking like she was going break down.
     “Are you okay?” I asked her.
     She shook her head.  A long, uncomfortable silence passed.
     “I’m broke,” she said.  “I can’t pay the electricity bill, and I haven’t paid the mortgage for April.” 
     I gave her $320.  I took the $183 Electricity bill and paid it online later that weekend. 
     “But it’s due again on the 1st.”
     “I can’t afford that until I get paid,” I told her.
     She whimpered away.
     When I caught her sister outside later, I asked, “Is Janna okay?”
     “Yeah, she’s like that when she misses her meds.  She’s just… well… just Janna!”

     And so, on the 26th, I found her behind her sister’s house, and in sight of her sister, I paid for May.

     On May 6th, the air conditioning went out.  I called her cell phone repeatedly to ask her about it.  She wouldn’t return my calls.
     Eventually, I went to her mother, Connie Hubbard, who worked in the Administration office at the Hospital.  I told her the situation.  Janna had apparently called her and told her about it.  Connie assured me that someone who be there to look at it.
     “Here’s our numbers,” I said as I gave them to her.  “I work all day and she’s working nights.  We need to schedule it.”

     Nothing happened.  Weeks past. 

     I called Janna on May 17th.  “Janna, it’s been almost two weeks.  What’s going on?”
     “What do you want me to do about it?” she said.
     “Excuse me?”
     She hung up on me.

     I got another Electricity bill, in the meantime, up to April 20th, for $48.  I paid it, too.

     I was pissed.  I vented about that situation to a few people, including some of her family.

     “Withhold her rent,” they said.  “I would!  There’s no sense in that!”

     I went home to find AC water all over the hallway.  I spent hours cleaning it up, and found that the overflow had been completely blocked because in all the time Janna had supposedly lived there, she never changed a filter.  It took hours cleaning up the AC condensors and unplugging the overflow drain.  But it was all no avail … the blower motor control unit was damaged after years of her neglect of the furnace.  The water had shorted it.

     On May 23rd, Janna showed up and brought me the mortgage payment book … which was actually an 8.5×11 sheet of paper with four check-looking things on it. 
     “We need out air conditioning fixed, Janna.”
     “Ok, he’ll be out here tonight or tomorrow.”

     On May 26th, I called her and left her a message that I would not be paying rent until she fixed the AC.  Plain and simple.

     No one came.

     No one called.

     Now, as we’re moving out, Janna is trying to claim that we never paid her rent.  That we are two months behind.  That we’ve destroyed her home by smoking and having pets that she didn’t agree to.  Horseshit.

     Problem is, I paid full price for partial month in April at $320.  I paid full price for May at $320.  I paid $241 (or thereabouts – I’m trying to remember off the top of my head) for her past-due Electricity bill.  I helped her carry her things out because she just couldn’t do it by herself (she whined).  We spent five days cleaning up her filth to the tune of NINE garbage bags full of garbage she’d left about the place.  I spent four hours making sure the AC didn’t leak all over the kitchen, utility and hall floors again.  I attempted to fix the blower motor, but it appears that the relay is bad from having water dumped on it for all those years.

     I called Janna and explained why I don’t owe her, and she hung up on me.  I called back and detailed everything, twice, to her voicemail.

     Next, her mother, Connie Hubbard, called me to rip me a new asshole.  She was rude and demeaning, and called me a liar the entire conversation.
     “Do you have receipts?  Then you didn’t pay it!”
     After repeatedly attempting to defend what I was saying, eventually, I gave up.
     “I am sick to death of you people from that town calling down here to wind me up when I haven’t done anything and you can fuck yourself, you cunt!”

     And she’s threatening to sue the Wildcat and I — claiming that we lived there four months, when reality and simple math show that we lived there two months, and it’s taking us a couple more days to move out.  It’s hard to do in that kind of heat with no AC.
     And Connie Hubbard called last week and said, “Don’t worry about the two holes.  Janna’s letting that trailer go back anyway.”  Yet, this week, everybody’s calling and cussing me out and degrading me and calling me a liar telling me I have to fix the holes.
     Mr Alan Osborne, benefactor of Ms. Napier, is seriously bitching the holes in the wall — and telling me the place was pristine when we moved in.  Clearly, he never saw it.  He’s going to get an estimate and sue me for the damage when he could just as easily pick up a patch kit and Clayton for $30 and have it installed in about forty-five minutes — and even match the crappy wallpaper.

     What they are doing is clearly against the Landlord/Tenant Act.  And again, friend of a frend, I trust too damn much.  I am allowed, by law, to withhold rent when they’re not fixing anything.  I’m also allowed to say, “It cost this much to keep the water from dripping and ruining the floor worse.”  Wonder what my four hours is worth?

     For a woman who may have never lived in the house, she sure managed to mess it up.  Instead, she lives with a guy who takes care of her and her daughter.  Now she’s claiming that we’ve destroyed HER house (where she hasn’t lived in over a year), and that she can’t afford to feed her child.  What?
     There was some MINOR damage (two holes in a 1×1 foot hold in the dry wall in the living room), however, that’s a $60 repair any way you look at it.  Caused by extreme frustration.  You try living in a trailer for a month with no air conditioning, you’d prolly get frustrated, too.

     But I am sick to death of these nonconfrontational assholes now turning tails and kicking the Wildcat when she’s down.  That is beyond reprehensible.  And I will not allow that situation to continue when we’ve done nothing wrong to any of those useless bastards!

     And so, Janna E. Napier and Connie Hubband get the Asshat of the Day award.

     Two women who seriously Can’t Understand Normal Thinking.  Janna’s money problems are not my problem.  The fact that she’s lost everthing she had?  Not my problem.  I didn’t sign up to be a benefactor for someone who’s obviously so bad with money that she can’t buy her own child food to eat. 
     I believe that’s what Welfare and Family are for, dear.  Except that it’d be a lie considering you’ve been being supported by one Alan Osborne for a over a year, now, wouldn’t it?

     So you want publicity, ladies, there it is.  You wanna lie about my character, I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about yours.

     I’ve known some amazingly nutty women, but this news story made me realize I’m not alone.

Police say that on June 14, the woman put Visine in the 32-year-old male friend’s drink without his consent, causing him to suffer vomiting, rectal bleeding and difficulty breathing…

On July 6, police said, the woman, using a metal cane, encouraged a large pit bull to attack the man’s Chihuahua, killing it.

…

Police … charged her with second-degree assault and third-degree criminal mischief.

     I can’t help but wonder what the relationship was between this woman and the object of her fury, as I’ve had the same sort of thing happen by a couple of women I was never even with.

     Sometimes, however, I’ve had some pretty frightening post-relationship encounters with ex-girlfriends, too.  Those sorts of blow-ups usually result in my racking my brain trying to figure out what I did to deserve it.
     Fortunately, this video clarified the issue, and now I know exactly where I went wrong:

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUGKtXz2fCM)