SA: Stalkers Anonymous--not so Anonymous

Funny thing. Yesterday I got a bunch of hits from people googling "sexy." They then came across the picture of me in Anna's bike gear. I felt a little guilty. Poor guys looking for sexy and they got dorky.
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A comedy acquaintance of mine bitched about having stalkers. I asked, "What are you complaining about? That's a friggin compliment. I'd love if someone cared that much." She responded, "Yeah, but I just don't have the time." "Oh," I said, "see, I give the people I stalk their space. They hardly know that I'm stalking them."

This of course reminded me of the story my best friend Anna told me. She too is a stalker. It's funny she and I are very similar. Except I have a boyfriend and she is continually single, and of course I perform comedy while she performs folk music. That and, she was raised by her aunt and uncle and I was raised by my parents. But we do share many commonalities, so many sometimes people get the two of us confused. I think she's a little crazier than me. Don't tell her I said that.

Anyway, last night at her performance she tells me, "Oh God, Rachael. I remember stopping by this show last year to stalk that boy I had broken up with. I didn't want to go stalk alone so I called you. Unfortunately you couldn't make it. You were packing for your trip to Japan. I didn't tell you at the time but I kind of was... extremely pissed at you. I'm glad I stuffed it and didn't curse you out."

"Yeah you did. You called a fucking whore traitor. Untrustworthy. And something about how I didn't deserve love."

"Oh yeah. Well, it turned out for the best. So you're forgiven. Don't feel the need to beat yourself up about it anymore."

"That's a relief."

"See, after I hung up with you a light bulb of brilliance appeared above my head: I realized I should call my buddy Aaron. He and I could pretend we're dating. That would surely drive the ex into a jealous aneurysm."

"Wait, Anna. Why would you need to pretend you're dating someone if you broke up with the ex?"

"Rachael, just because I broke up with someone doesn't mean I didn't still like him. Hello."

"Right, of course you'd break up with someone you dig. That makes perfect sense. I dont' know what I was thinking. It's late my brain's a bit foggy."

"Listen, I don't need your comedian sarcasm right now. I'm telling a funny anecdote."

"Alright."

"Anyway, I invite Aaron to come down to the show with me. He's perfect for the job of faux boyfriend. First off, he's a boy. Secondly, he lives the neighborhood. Thirdly, he's a boy who lives in the neighborhood. Only problem I don't want to tell him I need him to pretend to be my boyfriend because then I'd have to admit I dated one of the muscians on the show. I never told him I dated one of the muscians on the show--I was kind of ashamed."

"But you liked this fella you broke up with?"

"Rachael, please. Yes, you can have shame and like someone. So, I meet Aaron at the show and afterwards we're talking to the other people who had performed including the ex. I need to sell this 'Aaron and I are dating' scenario, so I try to hold Aaron's hand. However, I've got to do it so Aaron doesn't notice I'm taking his hand in mine. I point to something across the room and then grab Aaron's hand. Brilliant, right? He never suspected. As the evening progresses I feel I really need to send the message that I'm head over heals in love with Aaron. I realize I'm going to have to make-out with Aaron in front of everyone, but Aaron can't notice because he doesn't know we're pretending to date. Genius strikes. I casually grind the heal of my foot into Aaron's instep causing excrutiating pain. It hurts so much he doesn't feel me kissing him and rubbing my fingers through his hair. When I feel everyone has taken in the little show I say to Aaron, 'hey maybe we should go home now.' We say good-bye to everyone, but I don't say good-bye to the ex. I loved the ex too much to say good-bye again. It would be like reliving the break-up."

"Wow, that's an amazing story."

"Thank you."

My best friend Anna everyone.

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