Mrs. Potato Head

Like most grad students, we have a whiteboard on our office door. On it, we leave important notes like, "Office hours for Linus are cancelled today," or "Linus is in the computer lab - back at 12:30." Sometimes, we try to cheer each other up with little messages. I like to write, "Man is born free, yet everywhere he is chains. -Rousseau." (I know, that's not all that cheerful, but compared to much of Sociology, that's practically pollyannaish. Believe it or not, I'm the ray of sunshine amongst the grad students... )

Of late, however, the board has begun carrying some really odd messages...

"Linus,
You are the cats pajamas and the bees knees!
Love,
Mrs. Potato Head"

This missive appeared last Wednesday, I believe. We all pondered who wrote it, when, and why they used the diction of a hokey F. Scott Fitzgerald character. I was able to eliminate most of my close friends because of scheduling or distance from Black Vatican City. I decided to leave it up for a few days, even though my office mates immediately christened the writer a "stalker."

Yesterday, I arrived at the office and found the following:

"Linus,
You are the bubbles in my soda pop!
Love,
Mrs. Potato Head
p.s. Don't tell Mr. P Head..."

Lovely - now, not only do I have a stalker, she is also implicating me in alienation of affection and/or adultery. (In the interest of full disclosure, the boys down in legal tell me I have to clarify... While I admit to being a fornicator, I am not (currently) an adulterer. I am also frequently guilty of the "sin of Onan" and a few other random bits of sexual misconduct... but not adultery.)

I suppose you can't blame the poor girl. I mean, I am pretty much the total package; chubby, balding, sinful, full of fun facts about Thorstein Veblen and Auguste Comte, and up to my eyeballs in student loan debt. What girl could resist?

Assuming it really is a female. It could be - nay, it likely is - just one of my office mates fucking with me. And that's ok, really. This has been a tough semester already, and it's only going to get worse, so any levity on our floor is welcome. I won't get worried until Mrs. Potato head starts being really creepy. If there is a chicken nailed to our door, the next message is written in blood, or accompanied by a pair of (worn) panties, then I'll become concerned...