My phone rings.

A voice at the other end whispers, “The eagle has left the nest.”

Pause.

“The eagle is heading westward.”

Pause.

“The eagle has a very nice ass.”

I make a mental note to myself to fire my intern in the morning. She is obviously not giving this situation the kind of attention it merits. After all, a semi-attractive guy coming to our office occurs with the frequency of a solar eclipse. This afternoon, when he walked through the doors, I thought maybe my martini at lunch had hit me way harder than I had expected. Once I realized that it wasn’t a drunken dream, I jumped into action and re-defined my intern, Kim’s, job function.

“Yeah, Kim, remember how when we hired you, we gave you like a long list of things you were supposed to do. Well, you can ditch all of ‘em. Just, take this camera here and try and get as many pictures as you can. I’m talking multiple perspectives here. Top. Side. Left. Right. Bottom. Leave no angle untouched. Got it?”

“In fact, some angles should probably be touched multiple times (wink wink).”

My intern gives me the same look I give ninety-year-old men with twenty-year-old wives.

“Never mind. You get the idea.”

I sneak off to my desk to ponder ways in which I can draw him from the conference room: laxatives in his coffee, perhaps?

Stalking is without a doubt one of the lost arts. All these psychos stumble on to the scene, and they’re like “Oh I really love Cher. I think I’ll break into her house and steal her underwear.”

Amateurs.

A real stalker knows that stalking is nothing less than an art form. You can’t just be peering in your stalkee’s bedroom window and expect that one day, they’ll look out of the window and go, “Hey, you know what, that freak who has been staring in my window for the last six months is starting to look attractive…”

No, you’ve got to be way more deceptive than that…

For instance, I can be a bit of a bitch. But my stalkee doesn’t need to know that. Instead, whenever the current object of my obsession is within earshot, I subtly mention how good I am at baking homemade cookies. I then slide into my “Wow, I can’t wait til I’m married and can spend all my time cleaning and cooking” routine. Once, I’ve got him and I’ve got a good pre-nup in place, then I’ll share my goal of wanting to be queen of the world, while he stays home and cooks and cleans.

Insert evil (but nonetheless very very feminine laugh)

It’s been awhile since the eagle left the conference room. I think I might have scared him. He seems to be avoiding the bathroom. Poor guy that could lead to problems down the road…

Oh well, I guess I’ve always got Option B: 40 cats…