If only my real life was as exciting as my literary one.
I recently picked up a job writing sex blurbs for a hot new dating site. This is to supplement my income while my porn sales kick up. With any luck, by the end of this year, I will no longer be Essa Alroc, freelance writer and novelist.
I’ll just be Essa Alroc, writer of kicky spank porn.
But it occurs to me that my entire life is fueled by sex right now. My books sell because people are horny. The guys at the dating site need me to write for them because people are horny. You’d think with all of this horniness, I’d be getting more ass than a toilet seat, right?
As you all know, I am a fan of the one night stand. This is because I suffer from a magic disorder where I lose all interest in a person once I’ve slept with them. Apparently, the antibodies in my immune system view oxytocin cells on the same level as Ebola.
Meaning they terminate those motherfuckers with extreme prejudice.
Now, in the past, this has worked for me. I’m like a sex camel. I can get laid once and then live off the glow for an entire season. This saves me the trouble of having to talk to anyone, change out of sweatpants or leave the house regularly. I don’t like complications and other people in my life are complications. I might have some form of sexual aspergers. Regardless, it was working out pretty nicely in the sexual universe of Essa Alroc
But then some motherfucker killed my mojo. We’re going to call him “the sleep strangler.”
I met the sleep strangler at a Cuban club, because I have a thing for guys who have a thing for big asses. He was a sizzling hot Latin, a good foot taller than me, and he had giant hands. All pluses.
Then I got him back to his hotel room, and everything went to minus-ville. First off, he was a passive guy, the kind of guy who needs your permission to do everything and expects the chick to do all the work in bed. That would be all well and good if I was fat, or ugly, or looking for a relationship, but I’m not.
I’m a chick who knows what I want and what I want is for you to tell me what to do. Slap my ass, pull my hair, all of that fun stuff. Treat me like I’m the chick. Because when you put me in charge, it makes me feel like the dude. I don’t want to be the dude. It’s why I grew this lovely vagina all those 34 years ago.
So already, I was disappointed by the sleep strangler. That would have been all well and good if we’d just left it at bad sex. God knows I’ve had plenty of bad sex…
But it didn’t end there, because the sleep strangler was a cuddler.
Look, I know I don’t sound like it, but I can be cuddly. A few minutes of snuggling, laying together on the couch, even spooning, I’ve been known to tolerate, and even enjoy these activities.
What I don’t enjoy is when you cling onto me like a sweaty Irishman clinging onto the last life preserver on the god damn Titanic.
No joke, this dude was wrapped around me like the string on a Christmas ham, his face pressed right into my neck, as he snored like he had a case of terminal sleep apnea.
No matter where I rolled, he followed. No matter how many times I jiggled him, he just kept snoring. I even got up and went to the other bed (yeah, he had a double bed room. I’m so classy) and he fucking followed me!
And I was like “where was all this aggressive energy when we were actually screwing?”
By 5 am, I felt like my old bear, Vanilla. Yeah, assholes, I have a teddy bear. I’ve had him (he’s clearly a boy. A girl just knows these things) since I was eight. At night, I would squeeze that bear like my life depended on it. I’d squish him with all my might and when I woke up in the morning, he was right there next to me, wrapped in my kung fu grip, unable to escape.
That is exactly how the sleep strangler made me feel, hence the name ‘sleep strangler.”
The next morning, it was even worse. We were in one of those fancy resorts in the middle of nowhere, and there was no way for me to get home without him driving me. All I really wanted to do was leave a fake name and disappear, before taking a 9000 degree shower.
But the sleep strangler had other ideas.
He wanted to talk. He wanted to putter around his room, put his hair gel in, shave, shower, tell me about his family, go out for coffee. The whole time I was thinking “why the fuck didn’t I get picked up by a serial killer instead? At least that dude would have been done already.”
Note to serial killers: you want to torture me, no need to shove needles under my fingernails or chop off my limbs…just make me listen to a long, confusing drawn out story about why your boss at work is an idiot. You won’t even have to kill me. I’ll kill myself just to avoid that again.
Finally, hung-over Essa got a reprieve. The sleep strangler drove her back to her car. But escape would not come easily. No, the sleep strangler wanted her number.
I was fully prepared to give a fake number but again, the sleep strangler outsmarted me. He snatched my phone and sent himself a message from it, thereby giving himself a verified phone number.
So I went full black out mode when he texted me.
Don’t tell me I should have just let him down gently, because that is what full black out mode is! A one night stand is supposed to be a one night stand. We both know the score. If I don’t feel a connection with you, especially when you gave me sub par sex before trying to absorb me into your god damn body like a boa constrictor, I am fully entitled to pull the ninja breakup and just disappear.
But sleep strangler doesn’t think so, because last week, nearly one and a half years after our horrible, horrible night together, I got yet another text from him, complaining that he ‘felt used.”
So finally I responded, “You couldn’t have been used. That would indicate you actually did some fucking work.”
To this day, every potential hookup I see in a club, as our eyes meet and we both know exactly what we want to do, as we feel the initial glow of attraction, there is a small niggling thought at the back of my mind that keeps me from closing the deal.
Could this be another sleep strangler? Could I be dealing with yet another hot guy who thinks he can give nothing in the bedroom, because ‘all chicks want relationships’ and we’re supposed to do all the work to impress them? Do guys really think this? That chicks are so desperate for a dude that they’ll tolerate really bad sex, for a night of over the top cuddling and regular obnoxious texts filled with really, really annoying emoticons?
That niggling thought has so depressed me that I’ve elected to go from “one night only girl” to “my vibrator keeps me from being lonely girl.”
But this has had an alternate side effect that has made me a lot of money. All that pent up sexual frustration? That goes right back into my books. All the stuff I wish guys would really do? Right back into my books. Why deal with a boring beta male when I can write myself my own hot alpha male?
It’s made to order sex and I never have to deal with a potential sleep strangler because of that. So yeah, my life is a never ending sex romp, because fantasy kicks reality’s ass ever single time.
As you know, I frequent a little place called “Gas Station” for purchasing my addiction necessary items; i.e. cigarettes and beer. No, I’m not making the name up or changing it. This place is actually just called “Gas Station.”
I can respect that kind of marketing transparency.
What I can’t respect is you, new cashier. You have started playing the obnoxious dating game that I hate so much, despite the fact that I want nothing more to do with you than beer and cigarette purchases.
Let me give you the dating game in four stages, in case it’s unclear.
- Outright flirting “gee, your eyes are blue.” “I like your hair like that.”
- Passive aggressive flirting. “You’d look prettier in orange.” “Why don’t you leave your hair down?”
- Playing hard to get. “Oh, I can’t wait on you now. I’m busy answering my fucking cell phone.”
- Outright hostility. “Do you need to drink this much beer?” “Despite the fact that I see you 14 times a day, I need to see some ID.”
Apparently, new cashier, you have decided we’re in some type of relationship because I go to your store on a regular basis. I have been put through all of the obnoxious stages of flirting, from outright flirting, to outright hostility, despite the fact that I have no interest in you whatsoever.
Look at me. I show up at your fucking store in sweatpants with hair that hasn’t been brushed in a week and I bitch about period cramps as I slip an economy pack of tampons onto your register. I am making no effort to impress you. This is not part of the mating ritual. You are supposed to be my safe zone. I shouldn’t have to deal with your fucking mind games because I never promised you anything but the $4.23 a day it costs to support my nicotine addiction.
But you still manage to get offended by me refusing to date you. Really, you should be thankful. I’m a terrible human being. But you need to stop being offended, because you aren’t my type.
Let’s make this crystal clear. In order to even the playing field, because I’m Barbie with a brain, you must be one of two things to date me.
- You must be much better looking than me.
- You must be smarter than me.
I meet the guys I date by stumbling into shirtless models outside of Abercrombie and Finch, or by trolling Mensa meetings. I have never, and will probably never, pick up a cashier at the convenience store because he’s holding my beer and cigarettes hostage. I’m better looking than you (even on a sweatpants day). I guarantee I’m smarter than you, because right off the top off my head I can think of 11 different alternatives to working at a convenience store.
So stop with the bullshit. We’re not soul mates; we never even dated. I barely know you and I don’t give a shit about you.
I know you think that you have all the power, because you stand behind the register, but you don’t. There are at least 34 different convenience stores I could go to in a four block radius. I used to choose yours, because I used to enjoy it. Then they hired you, and they ruined it.
I’m not usually the kind of chick who makes complaints; I’m far too lazy to do that. But I’m seriously thinking about having your ass fired. Because when you think about it, who is management going to side with?
The totally replaceable dude they’re paying $6.00 an hour to, who makes his customers wait while he makes imaginary calls on his cell phone?
Or are they going to side with me, the chick whose beer and cigarette purchases are putting their kids through college? Trust me bro, I push it, you’ll be out of there faster than I can say namastē.
Save your novice college games for the girls who will actually play them and get me my beer and cigarettes without wasting my fucking time. I’m not at Gas Station to flirt. I am here to buy what I need to buy and move the fuck on. You want to play games, know that my game playing skills come in at the advanced level. Expect some slashed tires.
Every now and then I get a message from a dude from my past, who I was friends with, but never romantically interested in.
These messages all take on the same theme. First, they start out by asking how I’m doing. Then, they move on to dragging up the past. This dragging up the past usually includes a confession about some secret crush they harbored for years, but never had the ability to act on.
Then it turns accusatory. Along the lines of ‘I always wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I knew you only dated assholes and I never thought you’d go for me.”
First, guys who do this, stop calling the dudes I used to date assholes. Yes, some of them were jerks, but many of them were perfectly nice guys with whom things just didn’t work out. These things happen and I don’t see the reason to pigeonhole them into the whole ‘asshole’ category. That category is reserved for actual assholes, like the guy who slapped me around or the asshole who’s behind on his child support.
Stop claiming that ‘girls only want assholes’ because we don’t go for your passive aggressive shtick. I’m so sorry that you spent years pretending to be my friend in some half-hearted attempt to get into my pants. Life must have been so incredibly rough for you…Seriously, those Boko Harem victims must have nothing on your pain.
You are not a nice guy. You’re just telling yourself you are because you feel like a failure. I know, because I’ve been in the same position.
A long time ago, I was crazy about this guy Dave. We went on a few dates but it never amounted to anything serious. Simply stated, Dave didn’t want children. I had one, so he shut any potential relationship we could have had down early on.
Initially, I was a bitch about it. I mean, I was perfect for him. Why couldn’t he ignore his own standards in order to make it work between us? We laughed at the same things and watched the same movies. We argued allot. He was one of the few people that could argue with me in a way that would actually shut me up. Let me tell you people, that is a rare quality for me to find in a man.
But we never really escaped the ‘friend zone’. Over time, I got mad at him. I was irritated with him because he didn’t want me. I started ignoring his phone calls and being a cunt to him.
Then, I remembered my friend Mark.
Mark was one of those guys that I had a ton in common with. We read the same books, watched the same movies and laughed at the same jokes. Despite the fact that Mark was an incredibly attractive Cuban guy, I was never sexually attracted to him. He just wasn’t my type. So when the inevitable came and Mark word vomited his feelings all over me, it made things weird. Mark got resentful because I didn’t feel the same way.
He disappeared from my life, despite the fact that we had a fantastic friendship. He threw that away because he couldn’t get into my pants, even though as he said , he was “such a nice guy”.
Then it occurred to me that Mark wasn’t really a nice guy.
He was a jerk who was only after me because he wanted to screw me. The fact that he wasn’t my type for a romantic relationship was enough of a problem to throw away 2 years of a good friendship. That made me feel utterly useless, like the only reason he laughed at my jokes was because he was trying to sleep with me. Like the only reason we ever hung out was because he wanted me to be a notch on his bed post. I felt used and hurt.
I thought we were friends, but we were only friends until Mark realized I wasn’t going to screw him, because my only apparent value to him was a sexual one.
Then I realized that I was doing the same thing to Dave. Dave was a good dude. We had fun together and he helped me through a lot of hard times. Was it really ok for me to cut him out of my life because he didn’t want to be romantically involved with me?
No, it wasn’t and I wasn’t being a nice girl. So I let that shit go and I accepted our friendship for what it was. A really good friendship. That is rare and there was no way that I was letting him out of my life over my own petty feelings.
To this day, me and Dave are still good friends. We don’t talk as much as we should; we both lead pretty busy lives, but he’s a good dude. He is one of the first people I contact when I’m having problems and he has helped me through more than a few rough patches.
He started seriously dating someone else, and I never even got jealous. By that time, I realized what he’d known all along. We weren’t really right for each other. He’s a type A conservative who has never smoked pot, hates kids and has an affinity for greyhound dogs.
I’m a type B liberal who loves kids, is secretary treasurer of a cannabis reform group and finds greyhounds creepy (their necks are just so skinny).
Once I was able to let of that romantic obsession I was feeling, I found true platonic love with Dave. I was able to be happy for his new relationships and tell him anything. I talked him through his depression and he talked me through a bipolar summer.
I would have never had that kind of friendship if I’d just decided to cut him out of my life simply because he didn’t want to fuck me.
Our relationship is good because we’re not friends with conditions. We’re not friends until one of us decides that ‘friends’ isn’t enough. Our relationship is good because we accept each other.
Boys, if you’re pissed because some chick that you’ve been passively aggressively seeing doesn’t want to take things to the next level, know this. She’s not the problem. You are.
You are the problem because apparently your entire relationship with that girl was based on manipulation. You weren’t being nice to her because you cared about her. You were being nice to her to see what you could get from her.
That isn’t nice and you are not ‘such a nice guy’. You are a manipulator and that is the polar opposite of being nice.
If you want to be friends with a girl, then do it. But if you’re only being friendly because you hope to get something out of her later, that’s not friendly. In fact, you’re kind of being a passive aggressive pussy.
Not everyone who you’re attracted to will be attracted back. That’s just a fact of life. But if you walk away from people because they don’t want to sleep with you, don’t want to date you, don’t want to have a relationship with you, you are limiting your own horizons. You are choosing your friends based on what they can do for you and not how you feel about them.
And you are not ‘such a nice guy.”
The last time I had sex, back in the day where we would work ourselves up into a lather during a dinosaur back joust, and foreplay consisted of pulling each others powdered wigs off, I noticed a common phenomenon.
Every dude on the planet seems to think he needs Magnum condoms.
The average length of the adult male penis, while fully erect, is approximately 5.5 inches. I’ll be honest and say that is more than enough for me. The only time penis size would seem to be a problem is when someone is hung like a Tic Tac. For the most part, as long as you actually have a penis and you’re not pulling some kind of weird “Boys Don’t Cry” thing, I’m satisfied. I’ve never been with a guy who I felt would benefit from penis enhancement.
Though I’ve known a few who should have considered a reduction.
But I’ve noticed a common trend. Dudes who have no need for Magnum sized condoms carrying around Magnum sized condoms. It serves no purpose. It’s like a chick with a B cup buying double D bras to make herself feel better about her small tits.
You know what specs the Magnum condom was designed for? A minimum of 8 inches while fully erect. Here’s the deal; if you’re 8 inches while fully erect, you don’t need a condom, because there is no way in hell that I’m letting you touch me with that thing. Go find yourself a 50 year old porn star with a cavern of a vagina. I’m a little bit more compact than that.
But when you’re getting on top of me, getting ready to do the deed, and you give me a sly smile while pulling out a Magnum condom to fit your fully average penis, know this. Not only do you look like a moron with low self esteem, you are also putting us both at risk. Wearing an ill fitting condom can lead to spillage, which leads to STDs or accidental pregnancy.
And I’m not willing to risk my health in order to give you a self esteem boost.
So boys, be honest when you head to the drug store. Stop slapping down that economy box of Magnum condoms that you really don’t need and get yourself regular ones that actually fit. It might be a cliché, but it’s true; size really doesn’t matter.
Unless you’re Asian. Then you might want to consider the slim fits…just saying.
A few days ago, I did a post entitled “This is Why You Don’t have a Boyfriend.” This post struck a chord among many of my readers. This weekend I went out. While I was out, I met an incredibly good looking man.
And the longer he talked, the less good looking he became.
See, his problem was that he had obviously read one of those ‘how to pick up chicks’ books and was working every bit of material he could. Around the 15th magic trick and the 17th time he light-heartedly touched my elbow, I was just about ready to punch him in the throat.
Instead, I took a deep breath and clued him into the following.
#1. You are asking way too many fucking questions.
Are you writing my damn biography? Look, I know that every single book you read about the opposite sex tells you women are vapid, self absorbed creatures who are desperate to tell you every single detail about themselves in the first 15 minutes of knowing you.
Granted, I am incredibly self absorbed, but once we hit question 15 in as many minutes, I decided it was time to start fucking with you to see if you were even paying attention to my answers. I mean Jesus, I told you one of my hobbies was collecting Nazi memorabilia…and you’re Jewish. You didn’t even bat an eyelash.
#2. Ditch the magic tricks.
Yes, I know the guy in the fuzzy hat tells you that chicks love magic, but what he didn’t tell you is that those chicks are usually under 12. No, I’m not impressed with your ability to pull a quarter out of my ear. If my alcoholic, borderline retarded uncle Karl can pull that off, I’m pretty sure anyone can.
#3. Never touch me without my permission again.
Yes, I’ve heard of kenos too. Supposedly, the more you casually touch a woman, the more she becomes used to you touching her and more willing to let you take it further.
Here’s the real deal. We are living in the age of date rape, stalkers and dudes who keep girls locked in their basement for ten years. When you touch me, I automatically assume that you’re testing my skin elasticity for a skin suit. The next time you lay a hand on me, even if you’re caressing my pinky finger, I’m going to donkey punch you.
#5. Buying me drinks does not somehow ‘rent me’ for the night.
I’m not one of those idiot girls who goes bouncing around, demanding that every guy in the bar buy her a shot. I actually have my own money, and more than enough to keep me lightly buzzed. I don’t need you to ply me with alcohol in an attempt to get my inhibitions down. In fact, I’m almost sure I could drink your ass under the table.
Buying me drinks doesn’t somehow obligate me into sleeping with you. If you’re looking for a hooker, I suggest you just cut out the middle man and offer the money directly. Trust me; I am going to charge a hell of a lot more than $5.
#6. Did you really just tear up when talking about your dog?
God, nothing kills my lady boner like man tears. Again, I’m sure those books are telling you that girls love ‘sensitive guys’. Here’s the thing…not all girls do. Especially insensitive ones like myself. Girls are like guys. We all have different desires in our men and there is no one-size-fits-all approach. Sensitivity is not on my list of nonnegotiables and the second that you teared up, my vagina actually sealed itself shut.
#7. Stop following me!
I go outside, there you are. I go upstairs, there you are. I go downstairs, there you are. I go to the bathroom, there you are waiting outside the door. Damn it man, I could have been pooping in there! Do you know how creepy it is to think about you listening to that?
Following me like a tiger stalking a gazelle isn’t going to somehow make me cave in and go home with you. Instead, it’s far more likely that I’m going to call security…or donkey punch you…or both.
Listen, you can’t learn how to pick up girls from books. The only people who have any success from those books are the guys who wrote them. The only reason they’re successful is because they got rich taking all your damn money. Even the ugliest guy becomes much more attractive when he has a 7 figure net worth.
Ditch the books and be yourself. Yeah, some girls won’t like you, but no girls like you right now, because you’re coming off as phony and desperate. And phony, drunk and desperate is no way to go through life.
Occasionally, I do blogs about dating because I believe I have a unique perspective on the general human psyche. This comes from being a silent observer, and a crazy recluse who regularly listens to the people outside her window bitch and moan as they smoke weed.
No judgment people in apartment 241, but you should know that the Febreze isn’t covering up the smell. Move to the 21st century and get a vaporizer.
As I am a sucker for drama, I enjoy eavesdropping on their conversations. One conversation I hear a lot of is from a young lady who I will refer to as ‘Hopeless Hilda”.
Hopeless Hilda has a problem. She wants a boyfriend. I know this because it gets mentioned every twelve seconds, along with the phrase ‘what’s wrong with me?” Her well-meaning friends keep telling her ‘nothing is wrong with you. You’re beautiful. You just haven’t met the right man yet.”
Her friends, while kind, are 100% wrong. I will agree that Hilda is gorgeous. She is after all, a professional model. However, that is just about the only thing that Hopeless Hilda has going for her. So I’m writing this blog post, in the hopes that Hopeless Hilda will take to the internet and stumble upon my blog, so she can become a little less hopeless.
#1 – Never used the phrase ‘All men are (insert slur or generalization)” again.
Before you spit out the phrase ‘All men are assholes” I want you do something. Replace ‘men’ with any ethnic group. For example; “All men are assholes” becomes “All Hispanics are assholes.”
But you wouldn’t say the second one because that’s racist, right? Well, the first one is sexist. Stop being a sexist bitch. It is not an attractive quality. Not all men are assholes. Some men are assholes, as are some women. When you go around complaining about all men, you just look like a bitter hag. When was the last time you saw a headline on Match.com stating ‘desperately seeking bitter hag’?
#2 – Stop over-sharing
Hi Hilda. I’m Essa, the blond girl with the 9 pound dog. Seems weird that I’ve lived underneath you for like two years and you never even knew my name.
You know what else is weird? The fact that you just learned my name, but that I know you were molested when you were five, have an eating disorder, cut yourself when you’re depressed, have an abusive ex and you might be addicted to diet pills.
How do I know all this? Because you say all these things to every single guy you date. I know this, because you share it all, usually while breaking down in tears, right in front of my window.
Weirdly, the guys you say all this to never seem to call back, because I never see them again.
Here’s the thing Hilda, you need to work on your first date material. Tears and skeletons in your closet should be saved for when you are actually in a monogamous committed relationship. I know you read a lot of romance novels, and you just want someone to rescue you, but trust me babe, it isn’t gonna happen. If romance novels were real, we’d all be married to handsome billionaires.
#3 – Stop over-complimenting
One compliment is nice. 2 is getting a little weird. 3 reeks of desperation. When you spend a night telling a dude how smart, handsome and strong he is, eventually he starts thinking ‘wow, I could have any chick I want. Screw this bitch; I’m gonna go find a rich heiress.”
Ok, so not entirely accurate, but think of it this way. Have you ever had a guy repeatedly tell you how pretty you were during one date? Was it flattering at first, and then started to wear thin? After a while, didn’t you start to think that you were too good for him? Trust me; he’s thinking the same thing.
Good rule of thumb? Return a compliment with a compliment. No more, no less.
#4 – He doesn’t care about your hair, shoes, makeup, etc.
Save the girl talk for your girlfriends. Just because he compliments your shoes does not mean he needs a 45 minute lecture on why you always buy designer because it pays off in the end, because the leather is stronger and the shoes last longer.
#5 – Getting a boyfriend should not mean getting any boyfriend.
Girl, you have brought some real prizes home. I especially liked the unemployed guy with the neck tattoo, who you gave money to so he could take a cab to Orlando and buy some meth.
I wonder why he never came back.
Oh yeah, because he’s an unemployed meth head. You should be glad he didn’t come back, rather than bitching to your friends that he screwed you and never called again. I know Cosmo tells you that you should be married by now, but you should never base you life on what a magazine says.
You should base you life on what my blog says.
Next time you go on a date, do me a favor. Instead of falling all over yourself trying to impress the guy, actually pay attention to what he says. If it talks like a douchebag, walks like a douchebag and acts like a douchebag, it’s a douchebag. Stop trying to fake interest and instead fake food poisoning so you can end the date early.
Hilda, you seem like a nice girl. I’m sure that deep down inside, you don’t think that all guys are assholes. I’m sure deep down inside that you really know there is something wrong with you. In short, life isn’t a romantic comedy. Neurotic, high maintenance girls who complain about men all the time don’t marry Gerard Butler after getting proposed to in a hot air balloon. They die alone and get eaten by their cats.
You don’t need to change who you are. You just need to really consider the words that are coming out of your mouth before you state them. Because the real ugly truth is nobody wants a train wreck.
When you ask someone what they think of as the most romantic movie scene, you can generally expect a pretty cookie cutter response. They might mention the prow scene on ‘Titanic’. They might mention Harry’s speech in “When Harry Met Sally.” They might mention Noah scaling the Ferris wheel in “The Notebook.”
For me, the most romantic movie scene I can think of occurs at the end of ‘Hannibal’.
Clarice finally thinks she has Hannibal cornered. The cops are on their way. With sirens screaming in the background, she handcuffs Hannibal Lector’s wrist to hers. But Lector has one last trick up his sleeve. He pulls out a meat cleaver. It raises high in the air…fade to black over the sound of one distinct chop.
In the next scene, we learn that Hannibal did escape. We assume that it is because he cleaved off Clarisse’s hand in an attempt to free himself. Then we see him on a train, sharing a boxed lunch with a small boy. The camera pans down and we see his left hand is missing.
Hannibal cut off his own hand, rather than hurt Clarice. Now that is fucking love.
In case you can’t tell, my opinion on love can be pretty extreme. Chasing me down at an airport, singing a stupid song to me, or sending me flowers isn’t going to win me over. If you want me to swoon, you need to be willing to sacrifice a body part.
I always assumed that my extreme nature would result in my dying alone. Then I met you, internet stalker.
We met about a year ago. I’d just posted an article that included three pictures of me. You sent me a long rambling message. You said you were a fan. You told me I was pretty. I thanked you.
The emails kept coming, and they kept getting weirder. One spanned paragraphs and paragraphs. It was long, rambling and incoherent. I have to admit I didn’t understand much of it, but I got the general gist. You loved me…and you wanted to wear my face as a mask.
It was the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to me.
Most women are freaked out by stalkers, but I’m not most women. I spend a lot of time alone. I have nightmares about dying in complete obscurity. I have dreams that I disappear and no one ever notices. Those nightmares go away when you send an email.
Because as long as you’re around, I know there is one person out there who is obsessed enough with me to want me dead…and who fears my death like the apocalypse at the same time.
To me, that is just fucking beautiful.
As long as you exist, I will never cease to matter. For one person out there, I am their whole world. I am the love of their life and a ‘soul sucking, bitch, whore cunt’ all at the same time. I am the girl sending you coded messages in all my posts. My eyes really are looking right at you in my gravitar picture…even though it’s a profile shot and I’m actually looking somewhere off to the left.
I heard somewhere that stalking isn’t about love. It’s about power. I don’t believe that, internet stalker. The balance of power in our relationship is purely one sided. I am the sun by which your universe revolves. You are the guy that sends me weird obsessed messages that actually improve my self esteem. I ignore the threats and I accept the compliments.
Internet stalker, our dysfunctional relationship might be the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. Know that in my own way, I love you. I don’t love you like a lover, or like a brother. I think I love you in the same way Jodie Foster loves John Hinckley Jr. Through his obsession, he made an average looking girl with subpar acting skills a household name.
He made her Clarice…not the one in Hannibal, but you get my drift.
So thank you internet stalker. Most people would tell me not to engage with you, but half the reason you love me is because I never listen to people. You make me feel good. You make me feel relevant. For that, you deserve to be recognized.
And if you ever hit the Orlando, Florida area, there is an empty apartment right across the breezeway where you can see right into my bedroom.
Leaving the blinds open for you,