Please Don't Chop Me Up and Put Me in Your Trunk, John Denver!

I have a new job.  I like it.  It's good.  Except for one thing.  My stalker.  He looks like John Denver.  Only alive.  I wear a name tag.  I don't know his name.  He doesn't wear a name tag. Everybody at work calls him "John Denver."  Only alive.  He called me by my name when we had not even yet met face to face.  I had only walked behind his chair.  And yet he knew my name.  He had been watching me.  When first I looked into his eyes, I got the "heebie jeebies."  "The creeps."  The "please don't chop me up and put me in your trunk"s.  Even though I am new at my job and not yet overly skilled, he always comes to me with his questions.  Even though I can't answer them.  He asked me on a date.  I evaded the question.  See?  Another question I did not answer.  Maybe he's harmless.  Maybe.  Maybe I overreact.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Ladies, we get gut reactions for a reason.  I intend to trust mine.  And I intend to keep my guts.  I like them.  Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy. As long as my shoulders are still attached to my living, breathing body.  Oh, and as long as no part of me is bound with duct tape.  Except for my little boobs.  Duct tape is good for making cleavage, after all.