I read “My So-Called Stalker” (10/8) with interest, horror, and compassion. Never have I been so moved by a woman’s account of terror and intense rage as with this story. It reads like a nail-biting mystery novel, blazes like a lobbyist’s polemic for human (emphasis on the “human”) rights, and burns like a force of nature. I wanted to smoke, drink, and cry with “Theresa,” join “Kitty” and “Rita” in a hunt for the ugly bastard, and take up residence in the police station until someone paid a little fuck of attention.
At first glance, I may not resemble the self-described hard-drinking, hard-smoking Theresa. I wear suits and have a kid and a house in the ‘burbs, complete with roaming beagle. But I share her fuck-this and fuck-you attitude, because this is also my city, and I realize that as sorry as it sounds, no one is going to protect me but me. I really am impressed with the strength and bravery Theresa musters up to remind us that as lovely as life is, it is also a system of things to overcome and rise above; I want her to deputize me to join in her pledge for living well, regardless.
Takoma Park