Post by Alexandra Bishop on Mar 14, 2016 20:54:25 GMT
“Years pass, but you’re still as important to me as ever
We haven't talked in a long while but I still think of you almost everyday. I even dream of you from time to time.
I do wish that we'd reconnect, even in the tiniest way. I understand the reason we split, but things weren't as they seemed and I know our connection was real. It's hard to think that my first love happened when I was in my late twenties, but that's the truth.
I may not be important to you anymore, but you are still very important to me.
I wish you the very best, always.
Reach out. It would mean the world to me.”
The message was a bit like watching one of those disgusting videos of a doctor popping a massive, infected cyst. The pleasure came in the disgust that jaundice-tinted pus billowing out of a precise incision wrought, as well as the knowledge that the revulsion you felt made you normal. You might hit play again, just to be sure, and may be delighted when a second wave of nausea hits you in a socially, stomach churning, manner. So, you forward the video to your friends, hoping that their reaction will be just as intense as, if not more so, than your own, asserting that you were right.
Thus, I was only following a natural human instinct when, having read the message and experiencing the subsequent revulsion, I shared the text with my friends. Their faces twisted with amusement as the phone made the rounds until, at last, one enterprising friend read it aloud in the reverent tones of an overacting theater major. Everyone laughed and, feeling justified, I tucked my phone back into my purse. I plodded along through the mall after them, sucking idly on a strawberry seed that was lodged in the straw of my smoothie, and thought about my stalker.
I affectionately called him, “Mr. DO NOT ANSWER,” (Mr. DNA for short). He’d been stalking me for quite some time now. We had met when the burden of single life compiled with the shocking revelation that I didn’t much care for cats had prompted me to start a dating profile. Only a day into my dating frenzy, I made the mistake of giving Mr. DNA my number and, after two days and well over three hundred text messages, made the assertion that he as the sort of unhinged individual that would kill and eat me over the course of several weeks so that we could be ‘together forever.’ Which, for the record, is a poor way of insuring eternity together. It takes what...seven hours for food to pass through the large intestine? So, I suppose cannibalism is a viable option if you believe that seven hours is equivalent to eternity. Regardless, I ended our brief flirtation with a strongly worded text condemning his efforts and, somehow in the process, earned his undying affection.
As far as stalkers went, he was a pretty piss poor one. He never threatened me or my loved ones, which were classic stalker tropes that all serious stalkers employed in one way or another. He never phoned me in the middle of the night to breath ominously over the receive. He never left dead animals on my doorstep. He never lurked outside of my apartment, illuminated solely by a lone street lamp, in a dark trench coat. I felt like, as far as stalkers went, I’d lost the lottery. Instead, I ended up with a new age stalker, a child of the cybernetic era. He took an indirect approach, forgoing the usual candid photos in the bushes for the much easier act of liking all my Instagram photos. I’d bet my bank account that the bastard was even too lazy to print them out and plaster them on his wall, probably content to keep them on his computer. It was an error that was egregious, and cast a shadow on the whole profession.
When I stalked a guy, I did it thoroughly. I plastered my wall with his face and learne his schedule so I could take the best angled pictures of him. I would stake out my spot for hours without moving, peeing into water bottles if the need took me. Now, that’s dedication. I cut the brakes in his girlfriend’s car and send her the dismembered remains of her cat, because I am a god damned professional. I’d leave bracelets of my hair in his car and, if the opportunity arose, collect a few of his personal items. I’d even sort through his trash if the fancy took me. I left no doubt in his mind that I was devoted solely to him, unlike this watered down diet shit my guy was feeding me.
It would be just my like to land such a lackluster stalker. If he were cuter, I thought as I left my half-filled smoothie on a nearby bench, I would show him how it should be done.
We haven't talked in a long while but I still think of you almost everyday. I even dream of you from time to time.
I do wish that we'd reconnect, even in the tiniest way. I understand the reason we split, but things weren't as they seemed and I know our connection was real. It's hard to think that my first love happened when I was in my late twenties, but that's the truth.
I may not be important to you anymore, but you are still very important to me.
I wish you the very best, always.
Reach out. It would mean the world to me.”
The message was a bit like watching one of those disgusting videos of a doctor popping a massive, infected cyst. The pleasure came in the disgust that jaundice-tinted pus billowing out of a precise incision wrought, as well as the knowledge that the revulsion you felt made you normal. You might hit play again, just to be sure, and may be delighted when a second wave of nausea hits you in a socially, stomach churning, manner. So, you forward the video to your friends, hoping that their reaction will be just as intense as, if not more so, than your own, asserting that you were right.
Thus, I was only following a natural human instinct when, having read the message and experiencing the subsequent revulsion, I shared the text with my friends. Their faces twisted with amusement as the phone made the rounds until, at last, one enterprising friend read it aloud in the reverent tones of an overacting theater major. Everyone laughed and, feeling justified, I tucked my phone back into my purse. I plodded along through the mall after them, sucking idly on a strawberry seed that was lodged in the straw of my smoothie, and thought about my stalker.
I affectionately called him, “Mr. DO NOT ANSWER,” (Mr. DNA for short). He’d been stalking me for quite some time now. We had met when the burden of single life compiled with the shocking revelation that I didn’t much care for cats had prompted me to start a dating profile. Only a day into my dating frenzy, I made the mistake of giving Mr. DNA my number and, after two days and well over three hundred text messages, made the assertion that he as the sort of unhinged individual that would kill and eat me over the course of several weeks so that we could be ‘together forever.’ Which, for the record, is a poor way of insuring eternity together. It takes what...seven hours for food to pass through the large intestine? So, I suppose cannibalism is a viable option if you believe that seven hours is equivalent to eternity. Regardless, I ended our brief flirtation with a strongly worded text condemning his efforts and, somehow in the process, earned his undying affection.
As far as stalkers went, he was a pretty piss poor one. He never threatened me or my loved ones, which were classic stalker tropes that all serious stalkers employed in one way or another. He never phoned me in the middle of the night to breath ominously over the receive. He never left dead animals on my doorstep. He never lurked outside of my apartment, illuminated solely by a lone street lamp, in a dark trench coat. I felt like, as far as stalkers went, I’d lost the lottery. Instead, I ended up with a new age stalker, a child of the cybernetic era. He took an indirect approach, forgoing the usual candid photos in the bushes for the much easier act of liking all my Instagram photos. I’d bet my bank account that the bastard was even too lazy to print them out and plaster them on his wall, probably content to keep them on his computer. It was an error that was egregious, and cast a shadow on the whole profession.
When I stalked a guy, I did it thoroughly. I plastered my wall with his face and learne his schedule so I could take the best angled pictures of him. I would stake out my spot for hours without moving, peeing into water bottles if the need took me. Now, that’s dedication. I cut the brakes in his girlfriend’s car and send her the dismembered remains of her cat, because I am a god damned professional. I’d leave bracelets of my hair in his car and, if the opportunity arose, collect a few of his personal items. I’d even sort through his trash if the fancy took me. I left no doubt in his mind that I was devoted solely to him, unlike this watered down diet shit my guy was feeding me.
It would be just my like to land such a lackluster stalker. If he were cuter, I thought as I left my half-filled smoothie on a nearby bench, I would show him how it should be done.