Step Off, McSteamy.

Something has been troubling me, and I've come to a disturbing conclusion...

Eric Dane is trying to kill me.

Well, to be fair, I can't say with 100% certainty that he's trying to kill me. He may just be stalking me, I don't know, but it sure feels like he's trying to kill me. Time will tell. I'll either end up dead, or wake up to a smoldering stare boring into my brains and a prop stethoscope on my boob. Frankly, I hope it's the former.

Do you know how terrifying it is to have a McActor after you? Of course you don't. You know who does? Me.

It all started innocently enough about six months ago. Driving home and minding my own beezwax, I made a left onto my street. All of a sudden, I looked up and saw the hunkiest gorilla I've seen this side of the mist strolling across the middle of the street towards Marix. However, he was jaywalking, and I'm a stickler for laws (and Twinkies!), so I obviously refused to stop and allow His Hunkiness to cross in front of me. But as I rolled by Dr. Dreamboat standing on the yellow line glaring at me, I became entranced by his strangely gigantic nipples popping out from beneath his gray (what a coincidence!) t-shirt. Consequently, I almost plowed into the five parked cars in front of Marix.

Thankfully the three kind Mexican valets, who I'd know by name if I ever stopped to chat with them, started screaming at me in Spanish, and I recovered. And as I rolled past Beefcake Charlie, I realized it was Eric Dane, McSteamy himself.

Frankly, I don't care how appeteasing he is, so I shot him a look that said, "I don't give a flying shit that you're Mayor of Hunk City, I have the right of way, you don't, so suck it."

In return, he shot me a look that said, "I'm going to make it my job to kill you." This incident occurred during the writer's strike, so he did in fact, have the time to follow through.

Not two weeks later, I was the first car waiting at a light headed west on Sunset. It turned green, and just as I started through the intersection, a Mercedes came barreling down Sunset Plaza Drive, made a left through the red light, and almost hit me.

With my full torso hanging out of my window and both hands giving the finger, I recognized the bat-shit-crazy driver as she flew past me – Rebecca Gayheart. She's the lovely actress who found fame in the early 90's thanks to a Noxema campaign. It was a very effective campaign in that it made me immediately purchase a tub of Noxema. It was a very ineffective product in that I did not look like Rebecca Gayheart after I washed the white cream from my face. I proclaimed false advertising and have not touched it since 1992.

You may also know Rebecca Gayheart from a few episodes of Bev 9-er, circa 1995. She played Dylan McKay's wife.

You know who she's married to in real life?

Eric Dane.

Coincidence? Not likely. Gayheart may have been driving, but I know Eric Dane was crouched in the backseat yelling instructions, practicing his smile, and doing bicep curls.

But after that, Dane went quiet. Sure, I've seen him on a few episodes of Grey's Anatomy, and I do believe he's talking directly to me. It's so obvious. But for the most part, my life has been murder-free. Are you wondering about "for the most part"? You should.

But then, Eric Dane resurfaced three days ago. He tried to hit me. Again. He sure is tenacious, I'll give him that, but he'd make a really shitty assassin. Not that I'm easy to kill – I'm quick as a cat. If a cat is a manatee who feeds exclusively on Hostess Cupcakes and root beer floats.

So that's why I'm not certain he wants me dead. Maybe he's just trying to get my attention. Clearly, he's obsessed with me. But Eric Dane should know that I'm not like Jeff Goldblum. I'm not going to be reading about the chickpea, oblivious to his advances until it's too late and there's a gigantic heart-shaped box filled with hummus and a bouquet of cantaloupe from Edible Arrangements in my face.

No, that won't happen. And by the way, you know what, Goldblum? You can take your misleading cantaloupe and feed it to your vegan Fraggle, Imogen Heap. But I want that heart-shaped box of hummus back, Goldblum. You didn't appreciate the effort. Sure, the bottom may have been gooey from the leaking tahini, but do you have any idea how long it takes to whittle a heart from a coffin?

Well, if Eric Dane gets close enough and tries to shove flower fruit in my face, he'll be sorry. Because thanks to a little ruling from the Supreme Court of Heroes, tonight my musket goes back under my pillow, nestled snuggly next to my emergency Suzy Q's and Sno Balls.