Having a stalker is like getting the flu.
The mere thought of leaving the house induces unhappiness and irritable bowels.
I still remember my first stalker. I was fifteen. She had down syndrome.
More recently, a fat psychopath who's mother was in jail for murdering her grandparents. Yes, this shit really happens to me.
But good things always seem to come to me as an end result.
Back when I was fifteen, an incredible hottie would come cling to me and call me her boyfriend every time she saw Miss Forty Seven Chromosomes trying to grab at me.
And I actually ended up hooking up with that hottie.
And her sister.
The recent stalker was a little more aggressive.
After telling her to her face that I wasn't interested in her, and that she should leave me alone, she told all her friends that I had asked her out.
But, it was like her ears heard a conversation coming from some other dimension where I was attracted to desperation and the pungent smell of day old Vagisil, instead of the words coming out of my fucking mouth.
One night Cousin was out, fat girl was out with her friends and they bumped into each other. Cousin put up with her long enough to meet a few of her friends, and immediately texted me.
"There's someone here you should meet. She will fuck you. Tonight."
I was hesitant. I knew that psycho girl was there, too. Since she had told me. Fifty seven times.
I took a shit and put on a nice shirt. And went to meet them.
Cousin was right. The friend was cute.
I escalated the physical tension and we bounced back to my place.
It was so fast that my stalker (and a guy trying desperately to hit on the friend I took home) both hadn't noticed our absence right away.
Cousin mediated both situations.
She told stalker that I had left with her friend. Which made her burst into tears and slink away.
She told lame guy, "She's probably got his dick in her mouth as we speak."
Correct.
Yah. See? Best wingman ever.
