Friends, readers, fellow party people. The unthinkable happened. Your very own Partygirl was the target of an unthinkable crime.

I was a target of the UniBooger.

Yes, that's right. The Unibooger is a sick individual. His threats are sent through the mail.

This sick perpetrator is a member of my own family. Think JonBenet.

Here's what happened. A few weeks ago, my brother asked me if I could receive mail at work. "Of course," I told him. "But they don't, uh, go through it?" he asked. "No," I said. "So when you get it, it's sealed, right? It hasn't been opened?" he asked. "No!" I said. "And they don't scan it or anything?" he pressed. "No, you freak, of course they don't scan it - what the hell is wrong with you?" I asked.

I should have known then. Of course, they say that victims often blame themselves after an attack...

So I was sitting at my desk, chatting with my boss and a co-worker on MLK day. I was really feeling the vibe, man. Feeling the unity, you know.

And the mail arrived.

I saw a plain white envelope with my name written on it, in my brother's handwriting. I ripped it open.

Inside, is a plain white sheet of paper, folded over, with my name on the outside. I tried to open the sheet of paper but it was stuck together.

I peered into the folded paper and what I saw made my face go white. I sucked in deep breathes and tried to control myself.

Because on that sheet of paper was nothing but a boogie. A nasty looking boogie.

My brother sent me a boogie.

I would like to take this opportunity to point out to you people that this could explain why I may be so bizarre. I mean, HELLO, you try growing up with a brother 6 years older than you who used non-conventional ways like this to torment his little sister.

Not to mention the fact that the whole neighborhood was teeming with boys and I was the only girl up until the hippie neighbors moved in with their 2 daughters, Sunny and Bunny. And due to their non-violence upbringing they were not much help to me when I was on the bottom of the pile in the game of *alleged* touch football that I got roped into (to even out the teams) against my will.

On the bottom of the pile and I never even had the freakin' football! It was ridiculous!

And you wonder why I preferred to play hopscotch alone.

Or, there was my brother's big money making scheme, which involved inviting the neighborhood boys over and for a dollar, they got to watch while my brother beat me up. Or tickle tortured. To this day, I break out in a sweat at the first signs of tickling. I hate it. I remember being tickled to the point where I truly could not breathe. All red in the face and just could not breathe. It was terrible!

Or, there was the time when we were playing indoor volleyball with a balloon and he committed a foul by grabbing my wrist and inadvertantly sprained it. I was howling, screaming and crying and my brother was yelling "Fake Tears! Fake Tears!" and it took forever for my Mom to realize I actually had a real injury. I had to wear a wrist splint.

Prior to that my brother gave me my first black eye. I was chasing him to his room after Christmas - I was 3 or 4 - and wanted to play with him and his new toys and he - all of 9 or 10 - wanted nothing to do with a baby sister when they were new Matchbox cars to play with so he slammed the bedroom door in my little face. However, I was so little that the doorknob was eyelevel and it went right into my eye, blackening it. That hurt.

My mother was no stranger to the violence. One time, we were having a snowball fight outside and my brother was just bludgeoning me with well-packed snowballs, so I ran inside to hide and I guess he thought the screen door was closed and that my mom was on the safe side of the glass, but it wasn't and it hit her smack dab in the face. After that, she believed me when I told her the snowballs he packed hurt.

So now I am 27 and my brother is 33. I live in NYC and he's in Phillie. Grown-ups, or so we would have you think. Yet he has found a way to continue to torture me, without even being in the same state.

Beware of the Unibooger. He's out there. And he's has plenty of stamps.

*~*

My new obsession? It's Mocksie. If you need a reason, it could be for breaking this down this or for surviving this. Whatever you think of her, you have to admit, she IS moxy.

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