Stalker Stalker, Ass on fire.

There are a lot of times when you realise that nobody knows your life better than the one who's stalking you. Joke.

You notice every step they take, how they avoid walking over a pile of fresh dog poop while you walk over it caught up in their next set of movements.




It's fun to have a stalker especially if your a guy who is bored out of his mind and needs something entirely new to bring back a small dose of liveliness in him.

Having said that, I imply me. No weaving around creamy textures around the character and then bring in the final swish of the wand and say 'Wallah! That magical person you read about was me.'

It's amusing when they don't know that you know. It's amusing still when you hear stories about how you actually seem to live life from a person who's lived that life from just ten steps behind you.

It's creepy alright, especially if its one of those lunatics who tries pulling off some sort of 'Exorcism of Emily Rose' stunt on you; but then again, The theory of a large population diminishes the chances of that to a miniscule number.

For the guys out there behind em lovely ladies, stalking is not gawking. Subtle difference. Look it up.

For the ladies out there, I admire your confidence and your sense of adventure; but remember, not all guys laugh it off; there are a few who just cannot take it joyfully. (Read as Carry Pepperspray.)

This brings me to the end of my belligerent campaign of establishing my bragging rights and what not on my blog.
Stalk more, gawk less.

Amen.