A Message for My Stalker(s)

I know you’re out there.  Watching me.  Wondering.  Grabbing your binoculars every time I walk past the window.  Just for a glimpse of me.  My hair.  My elbow.  Anything.

I can’t figure out why I’m so fascinating.  Why you wait, watch, track.  What you’re hoping for.  I left you a long time ago.  I mean, I know I was the one who cut it off and everything.  It wasn’t exactly your idea.  But I know you weren’t happy.  That much was pretty clear.

But even when we were spending all that time together, you found me pretty fascinating.  You’d stare.  You’d perpetuate these ridiculous conversations.  You talked about how I was and what I said and and and to your friends, your family, yourself.

I don’t know why.  I’m so ordinary.  You wanted me to believe I’m ordinary, but you never believed I was ordinary.  Ordinary things are not worthy of conversation.  Nobody ever talks about the roundness of tires or a green leaf on a tree of green leaves.  Unless, of course, they’re spectacular tires or are absolutely mesmerized by the beauty or uniqueness of that green leaf in that tree of green leaves.

And here, I’ve been gone for quite a while and you’re still wondering.  Still talking.  I know you are.  I see you around.  A disappearing red sleeve when I look out the window.  Your car parked on the other side of the street in front of that big white house.  A flash of white when the light reflects off of your big-eyed glasses.

Can you tell me why I’m so interesting?  And don’t give me your “it’s like watching a train wreck” lies.  People look at a train wreck once and they like to forget about it when it’s gone.  Only the most disturbed return to it again and again.  I’ll make it easy for you.  Email me.  Click the little mail icon at the top of this page.  I’d really like to know.

I won’t ask you to stop.  Odds are you can’t help yourself anyhow.  Whatever turns you on, man.