Monday, July 19, 2010

To My Stalker:

I do not get hit on that often. Granted, some part of that is (I hope) because I don't go out as often as I used to, but there it is. Actually, even when I *had* a social life, I still didn't get hit on that much.


Anyway, it's not that I'm hideous or have questionable hygiene or that I twitch a lot or spit when I talk, but I think it's more closely related to my loud, obnoxious laugh (and I laugh all the time), my... :ahem: "colorful" sense of humor, acerbic sarcasm problem and tomboyish tendencies. Additionally, I have no shame and can be socially awkward. Once, a guy approached me in a grocery store and called me "foxy" and I somehow ended up singing Hendrix and wailing on my air guitar, which I thought was perfectly appropriate. He gave me kind of a weird look, though, and walked away. I was later informed that this was not the correct response to a guy calling you foxy, but dude. Foxy lay-daay. Dun dun dunn, dun dun dunnnnnn. If that's not the first thing you think of when someone says, "Well aren't *you* a foxy thang?" then obviously your brain is not working right. Maybe you should see someone about that.

I'm giving you this back story, friends, because I would like to express my shock at the fact that I have a stalker.

*I know.*

Remember a few months ago when I was at that horrible paparazzi event and I ended up hitting on the Hot Old Spice Guy? As I was leaving the event to go home and write my article, I was approached by a young man. When I say approached, I of course mean "chased down the street". I heard him running up behind me and thought he was going to try and mug me, because who *else* literally chases after women? Naturally, I clutched my purse and my notes close to me and mentally catalogued any available weapons on my person just in case.

*SLASH* You've been foiled by my ability to give you a paper cut with my notes!

As it turns out, he did not, in fact, want my purse. He wanted my number. The exchange went something like this:

"Hey! Did you just come out of that restaurant over there?" says my potential mugger.

"No." I bent into a kind of crouch - ready to leap at him and paper cut him near the jugular.

"Oh. Well, what are you up to?"

"Going home. I'm on deadline. Bye." I was squinting at him suspiciously, still crouched with my dangerous paper weapon.

"Wait, can I have your number?"

"Uh, what? ::extreme confusion on my part:: Why? No. I'm in a hurry." I started walking away, but he followed me a bit, peppering me with questions that I was getting more and more frustrated answering ("Are you from here?" "No." "What deadline?" "Work." "Can I have your number?" "No." "Why?" "I don't know you." "Can I get to know you?" "No. I'm anti-social and weird." "Really?" "Yes."). When he asked again for my number, I realized that I had to give him some kind of information to get him to leave, because I definitely didn't want him following me all the way to my car because, while a car would be a much more formidable weapon for my defense, it's somewhat illegal to try to run over a guy who just wants your number. I tried to remember the fake number that I used to give out all the time gave out that one time, and recited it to the best of my ability, which turned out to not be a great kind of ability at all because the only thing I thought of was my actual number, which is what I ended up reciting.


Is it true that alcohol abuse can have adverse effects on your memory? Yes. Yes, it is absolutely true.

The next day, Stalker Man texted me. I didn't respond. A few days after that, he called me and left a voicemail. I didn't answer, or return his call. The week after that, he texted again. I didn't respond again. He called. I didn't answer.

You get the idea, right? Good.

He did not get the idea.

After a solid month and a half of attempting to get a hold of me, failing, and attempting again on a weekly basis, I finally grew some huevos. I responded to him one evening when I was just getting into bed and he had called, left a voicemail, and texted all in the span of 5 minutes.

"Listen," I texted back. "I'm really flattered by your attention, but I'm dating someone else. Sorry. Best of luck with everything."

"Cool," he responded. "If your life ever clears up a bit, give me a call and I'll take you on a tropical adventure."

Yep. I couldn't make that shit up. A tropical adventure? Uh, wherein you would kidnap me, ship me to Singapore and sell me as a white sex slave? Excellent. Tropical adventure, indeed.

I figured, however, that was the end of my stalker. I didn't hear from him for a couple weeks, but then, one afternoon he called again and left a voicemail saying that he wanted to "hang out" and "catch up" and "tie me up in his basement". Okay, he didn't really say that last part, but it was there between the lines, you know? Great idea, let's catch up! Here's what we can catch up on: I don't like you and have tried to ignore you, be polite, be honest and wish you the best. You however, only hear what you want to hear, which apparently sounds like, "OHMYGOD! I'M SO GLAD YOU CALLED! PLEASE KEEP BOTHERING ME BECAUSE SURELY, YOUR PERSISTENCE WILL PAY OFF! P.S. I WANT YOU TO TAKE ME ON A TROPICAL ADVENTURE!"

So here we are, very clearly not on the same page. That will probably change soon, though, because I have every intention of hunting down your email address and sending you this blog entry to further clarify any misgivings you may have about me.

"Surely," you are probably thinking, "surely, TAB, you will miss me?"

No. I will not miss you; I am an excellent shot.


  1. This happened to a friend once. She finally texted back in a message that basically read:
    [Phone Company] has currently disconnected this number due to lack of payment. Blah blah blah