Friday, December 3, 2010
I Think You Might Be Stalking Me
Hey, it's a free world, right? And if stalking me keeps you from, say, lingering way too long at the counter to chat it up with the Starbucks barista who shifts her eyes nervously back and forth hoping someone will come save her, well, then- I feel I'm providing a civic duty.
If you're stalking me because we, I don't know, dated in the 80s or 90s, well, I get that. We probably had a great time going to the mall together to get matching perms or going to see a Pink Floyd laser light show. Maybe we made mixed tapes for each other. That's fine.
If stalking me on the internet keeps you from thinking about those good times 10, 15, even 20 years ago and somehow thinking that if we could just meet up again, it would be like it was when Duran Duran was on the radio. And not the oldies station- well, then it's a good thing. Because we'd meet up again, sure. And it would be weird. And the reason we broke up then would be the same reason we'd brake up now. Except we now look older and more pathetic.
If you're stalking me and don't even know me, well, there's nothing really here for you. Seriously. Half the stuff I post is pure dribbly junk that only one co-worker lady (hi, Deb) seems to enjoy, and I don't even have any racy pictures of myself on here. In fact, I don't really have any racy pics anywhere. Except that one of me in a bikini that was taken when I was a nanny and accompanied a family to Florida. I was sitting in the sand with the youngest, a baby, really, and turned to look at the camera. It's unfortunate that the way in which I was sitting and the augmentation that happened because of the turning made for an unexpected Sports Illustrated shot that ended up in this family's vacation photo album. Awkward. I mean to say really, really awkward. Still.
Anyway, there's nothing to look at here. And if there were, I must say, I'm more on the side of thirty-something plain than 20-something Kardashian. Google image search might be a better arena for you. But, if you feel at home here, I can't stop you. Go ahead and stalk.
I've recently installed a web-tracking thing that allows me to see the visits on this blog. Don't worry- I can't actually see who reads this blog, but I can see the browser (i.e. charter.com or sbcglobal.net) and sometimes the city (i.e. Montville, New Jersey or Sterling Heights, Michigan.) For those of you with dial up or those using your i-phones and whatnot, I can't see much. No city. Nothing. You could be anyone, anywhere. But there's one of you in a sunny state- and I don't know who you are- that reads my blog. A lot. You're bordering on stalking, buddy. Wish I was more interesting for you on here. Must be kind of boring. Sorry.
If you're stalking me on facebook, well- I have no room to talk there. If I'm friends with you on facebook, I've probably stalked you, too. So, no hard feelings.
You know what I mean. It's the, "Oh, I think I'll look at some of her pictures" and then some time later, you're way deep into albums I posted over a year ago. If you broke into my house and started rifling through my photo albums, waking me up in the night to say, "Hey! I like this one!" I'd be thoroughly creeped out. Not seeing you do it, I'm kind of okay with it. Kind of.
I mean, in my early days of facebook, I got my stalk on. Big time. I've seen all of your trip pictures. And wedding pictures. And work pictures. And holiday pictures. If I was on a roll, I may have even clicked over to your friends' pictures. People I don't even know. Smiling on a boat and eating lobster. Holding their newborn baby. Giving a thumbs up at Disney World. I didn't care who they were. I was in a picture-viewing maze that led me so far from my home page it's a wonder I ever made it back.
I don't have time for that shit anymore.
Perhaps we're not friends on facebook, but you looked me up, anyway. Is that her? I can't tell? Man, I don't remember her looking like that at all. I've done that. I can't blame you. It's when you think of a person you kissed in 8th grade and decide to go ahead and type their name in the search bar. Yikes! The years of beer drinking really got to him. Whoah. Perhaps I'm the girl you kissed in 8th grade. Perhaps you took me to prom. Maybe we dated when one or both of us really shouldn't have been dating. Maybe we had screaming fights or you cheated on me or told me that you got bruises on your shoulders from a stripper that leaped off stage and landed on you. (Yeah. I remember that. Still one of the more bizarre breakup stories I have.) Maybe you loved my mom and dad or couldn't stand my dog or wished I'd stop smoking or wished I'd start drinking. Funny that I'm a part of your past or that you were part of mine. All of you. The you-s of my past. The you-s that may or may not be stalking me.
With that said, keep your stalking to the internet world. Following me around and giving me a good, creepy watching would be a huge letdown, I'm afraid. Right now, I'm sitting on my couch, Rufus Wainright ("I Don't Know What It Is") is playing from the tiny speakers in my laptop, my dog is sleeping next to me, and I'm wearing a non-sexy bright green flannel jammy set with blue and pink starbursts on them. My hair is in a ponytail, my makeup is washed off, and there's some zit cream on a whopper of a pimple on my chin.
When I'm done with this blog, I'll probably go down and fold my laundry. Then get on facebook for a bit. Then maybe check out a show on Hulu or read a book. It's 8:45 on a Friday evening, and this is how I roll. Nothing to see here. Eventually I'll get my journal and write up a little gratitude list. I'll take the dog out one last time and go to bed. If my gentleman caller calls, or if I feel like calling him, we'll chat it up for a bit. Weird jokes and sarcastic jabs in between topics like what happened to famous Nazis and how was work today. Nothing much to overhear, really.
I guess I do have some time tonight. Maybe I'll go search for what's-his-name. That boy I had a crush on in 7th grade science class. Or that girl who said she was born without a tailbone and who wore a paperclip in her mouth, swearing it was a retainer. Yes. Yes, I have some stalking to do...
Posted by B. Maret at 8:58 PM