I Aspire to be a Stalker

I have way too much time on my hands, having lost my job as a janitor in a Burger King due to sampling the floor-sweepings. I also have no curiosity about anything outside the perimeter of my TV, which I blare so loud, especially when watching Springer, that my neighbors have all had nervous breakdowns, with one seventy-six-year-old lady showing up at my doorstep carrying a shotgun that she then turned on herself before my very eyes. Luckily the show, Cops, was there to film the whole sequence of events so to allow me, later, to really see how it all went down, and without having to again get up from my smelly recliner. This adds to my vacancy, but not as much as the total absence of friends in my life – even my pet turtle calls me a mere acquaintance.

That is why I am thinking of stalking a woman. I understand that this takes a lot of work, what with having to travel to her home at two AM to yell out crazy shit under her window or to take pictures of her through the same portal. That of course leads to the additional labor of blowing up the photos and pasting them all over a makeshift shrine to my goddess. Jeez, the shrine – I forgot about how much effort and creativity it would require to build a facsimile of a Shinto worship wall. Also it takes exertion to maintain the candles at an hourly rate, but that can be gotten around by using electrical ones.  Oh yeah, and I will have to get a private listing for my phone so that I can leave creepy messages on my stalkee’s voicemail, since every true stalker believes that this wooing technique has the same success rate as good looks, flowers and expensive dinners.

That leaves the choice of the woman to be stalked. The key is not to fall into the Mary Ann Summers from Gilligan’s Island Trap. This is what happens to the aspiring stalker: He chooses a beautiful woman whom he believes no one else views as a raging hottie. This delusion comes about as a result of the girl being contrasted against a ridiculously glamorous Ginger Grant. In this instance, the stalker thinks he is making the ultimate sacrifice for pure Love by looking beyond his Mary Ann’s mere eight-in-a-scale-of-ten good looks and seeing her as Dante saw Beatrice, an ethereal beauty untouched by demeaning earthly limitations, regardless if the girl in question is a single mother of three – all from different fathers -- living in a trailer, and whose vocabulary exceeds the infamous seven words only when using the word “blow-job.” But what happens is that every other guy uses the same formula, so that Mary Ann becomes the object of every man’s desire, while Ginger is perceived as a museum piece that can only be seen, not touched, from behind the glass case.

In other words, if I am going to make an honest effort at being a stalker, then a Ginger Grant type should be the girl on whose car I spray-paint the words, “I Love You.” Now I better start to work on the shrine.

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