ADDITIONAL AUTHOR NOTES: Judging from the mail I've gotten in the past 24 hours about "Dana Scully's Guide to Self-Improvement," almost everyone thinks that I've had their living rooms bugged this season--they've been yelling for Scully to whup Mulder upside the head and knock some sense into him. What do you do when you've tried rational, and gentle, and artful persuasion, and he *still* doesn't 'get it'? Maybe you just 'lose it.' Of course, there was the sentiment that Mulder deserved equal time, and the companion story "Fox Mulder's Manifesto of Manhood" pits PigGuy!Mulder against KungFu!Scully.

DISCLAIMER:

Look, people, I let David's ring hijinks in 'Travelers' slide, and I didn't say anything when some clown stuck the Nike into the ice block with the alien corpse in 'Gethsemane.' But when I find out who put two 'head' halves of the prison superintendent in the 'Trevor' ep shot, another head will roll...if you get my drift.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. MY life, Mulder. Take a good look at that. Not "the life of Dana Scully, property of Fox Mulder," not "so-called life of the chattel of Spooky," not "the life of Fox's little love Dana." Here's a big fat clue, G-Man: things are about to change.

1. Respect

Oh, I'm sorry, you don't know that word. Or maybe you don't think of 'respect and Dana Scully' when your single neuron fires. I'm tired of making allowances for your disability, Mulder, but it's YOUR fault that you have a Y chromosome. Get over it and yourself.

That goddamned poster of yours got more fucking respect than I ever did. Yes, as a matter of fact, I *do* remember the little matters of my coma and Antarctica. You sat around going nuts while I was gone for three months, you got frostbite and lost three cell phones in Antarctica. So, let me get this straight--it's somehow MY fault that you couldn't get no satisfaction one way or the other during that three months? You haul me off to Texas, I get stung by the consolation prize bee, and sent to the frozen food aisle at the Aliens 'R' Us in Antarctica, and you want me to be grateful? Wrong, boy-o.

Holy Revelations, Batman!--I'm not your sidekick. I'm not your paperwork geisha either. I'm tired of all of the patronizing crap I hear from you. You respect me in your own way? Oh, really? That's about as believable as Milosevic trying to sub for Sally Struthers in the Save The Children Fund commercials. I have to earn your respect? Well, you've made that a daily moving target, and it's hard to hit a moving target--and I'm a much better shot than you'll ever be. Of course, I've had a lot more practice while you've had to wait for your weapons to be reissued...multiple times.

2. Work

Fox William Mulder: tortured, driven, dedicated. That's bullshit. You're a deluded dickhead and don't you DARE make puppy dog eyes at me because I've seen the old Three Stooges reruns--I've got fingers and I KNOW how to use them. Legitimate work for you, Mulder, appears to amount to wearing "I'm A Loose Cannon" t-shirt and getting your sorry ass into one lethal situation after another while exercising the absolute minimum of forethought. (It must be so limiting with a single neuron, Mulder.) Your fantasy seems to be that my obligation in this joke of a partnership is to find a way to repeatedly save you from the dire consequences that you've not only sought but frankly deserve. I submit the 302s that you conveniently 'forget' to write. It slips your tiny mind to even notice, or God Forbid, say thanks. I let you bounce your insane theories off me and then--no, that's not tectonic plate activity, son--I grind my teeth as you ridicule my theories in your 'humor the little woman' tone of voice. I've done your expense reports while you've hied yourself off to do big old important male Special Agent stuff, like hosing a picture of Kersh in the urinal.

Unmitigated gall, thy nickname is Mulder--I recall the lecture you gave me about how I needed to do my work to please *me* and not to expect praise from you for doing my job. You hypocritical SOB, fifty percent of my time is spent pandering to your overblown ego and its compulsive need to be stroked. It's truly ironic that the ones who sanctimoniously declare that virtue is its own reward are 'getting theirs' on the side. Every other word out of my mouth has to contribute to an ode to Mulder, while your attitude is that I'm making the job too personal and I should glory and revel in the unsung opportunity to debase myself at the altar of Mulder.

Want your balls in a bag, Mulder? Got scalpel, can slice and dice. Really. Don't tempt me.

3. Trust and Love

I'm the only one you trust? Jesus H. Christ, Mulder, you have a damn strange way of showing it. Maybe you left some modifiers out, like "the only one I trust on Thursdays," or "the only one I trust with my dead fish." How about "the only one I trust except for Cute Cunt Diana or that dog lady"? Gibson Praise, the European MUFON chapters, Cassandra Spender--and still you trusted Fowley. Her vibrator could be engraved "Another Tool of The Consortium," and you'd pass it off as a coincidence. Or "Ms. Dances With Wolves"? What, did she offer you your very own Hartz Mountain Flea Collar?

You trust me when it's convenient, Mulder. When it's not convenient you put your head up your ass to get some nice warm insulation for that poor overworked neuron of yours, and then you spout some shit about my not trusting you. God, Mulder, you marginalize me, force me into some weirdshit mothering role, have me step and fetch for your every need, and then when I dare to stick up for my own interpretation of the facts, suddenly Cry Baby Mulder poops in his diaper and wants attention. Suddenly Hard Cruel Dana doesn't *love* poor Mulder-poo anymore.

Well, Mulder, all I can say is that you should stop thinking with your dick, which admittedly means taxing that single neuron again. You can trust me to watch your back, because that's my job. You can trust me to supply information and arguments to support or refute theories. You can trust me to finish my paperwork.

Love? What's love got to do with it, Mulder? Love means feedback, Mulder. Love means trust. Love means respect. Feedback, trust, respect...those are all unexplored countries for you, Mulder, unknowns. X-Files. And you'd like a guide to those mysteries, a companion, someone to seek the truth with you.

Which brings me to item 4.

4. I've learned to say "no."