Unabomber on the Upper East Side?

I am quite concerned about this mystery package. I do not think it out of the realm of possiblility that I have created a few enemies out there, and therefore could be the target of some sociopathic stalker. It is, in fact, possible that The Asshole or some other penned-about person may be attempting to scare me, horse-head-in-the-bed style. (Or was it a donkey? I don't think I ever really watched that movie all the way through.)

OK, so the facts:

This package, a standard-sized, square, brown cardboard box, was hand-delivered via messenger to my doorman last night around 8-9 p.m. (Swear to God, my doormen are more slow-witted than Duane Reade cashiers.)

There is no return address or postmark, and it merely has my name and address printed on the label, not my apartment number.

The address label is just printed on regular white paper, with some meaningless tracking number (un-Googleable), and the date of 01/21/2006.

It is very light in weight and when I shake it, something very light moves around in it.

It is not ticking.

I did not bring it into my apartment. I am debating on whether to just toss it in the garbage can outside the building, bring it to the police, or chance it and open it.

Now, I know it's probably nothing, and I am letting my imagination get the better of me, but if it is nothing, why the hell is there no sender info and why the hell was it hand-delivered by messenger? I am unlisted, what the fuck????

The only possible thing I can think of is this, and it's a loooongshot. I may have, in the past, indulged in a little smoking of the marijuana variety. When I did so, I used one of those uber-convenient delivery services, which, for those of you outside the city, entails calling a pager, having them call you back, and then having them show up at your apartment door an hour or so later. These services are commonplace up here, and the safest possible option when it comes to buying weed. Much safer, and more civilized than, say going up to some stranger in some strange park. Anyway, these companies are rather professional; they have business cards; they work on referrals; they use codewords and only know the customer's first names.

(Oh, shit, I just realized that the fact that they only know my first name negates the possibility that the package is from them. FUCK. Now I am really concerned. Motherfucker is going in the garbage ASAP.) To conclude the story though, said delivery service was busted by the feds recently, and apparently the DEA now has a list of its customers. I'm not worried on that front, my patronage of their services was insignificant, and they had many famous, ultra-wealthy clients that the DEA would be more interested in. But, it is not that farfetched to assume that the company reorganized itself after the bust and is now reaching out to former customers via the mail. But, like I just wrote, they didn't have my last name. In any case, it's an interesting saga:

The Smoking Gun via Gawker


I honestly can't make this shit up; I just seem to invite the drama.

One more option though—Mr. Devil/Scott has a bona fide stalker. I wonder if, for some un-Godly reason, Perri has moved on to moi? And if so, shit!!!!!!!!! If I do have a stalker, I'd prefer it to be male, Jewish and single, with a full head of hair, an Ivy education and a good job.

The mail has become a scary proposition. I remember after the anthrax scare, I didn't open my mail for months, and when I did, it was with gloves because my mail was sorted at the same facility as the contaminated letters that ended up at NBC in Rock Center. Coincidentally, I ended up working with, at Star, the first victim of the anthrax-by-mail attacks. She was the one who worked at the Post and opened that letter. Small world.

Yes, I'm maybe a little paranoid. No, it's not from the weed. I do not watch cartoons anymore.

Oh, and thanks for reading Nancy; somehow I think that anywhere I may live, aside from Jax., will provide for interesting material. Let's hope, anyway.