OK, the other week, I met this chick at a thing, and then went dancing. Already, the night was a bad idea, but it got worse. Somehow, at the end of the night, I had her phone number. Yay me – That’s not the “worse” part.
(She was a hairdresser and there is a pathetic tangent about my dad’s footsteps, but i will save the universe from that. It is part of the “worse,” if you’re keeping score.)
After that, Sheriff Joe decided I needed some intense scrutiny. This is the actual “worse” part. In honor of my narrow escape from tent city, I hit the delete button on that night. Won’t go back to the dance place. Won’t go back to the restaurant. Won’t acknowledge this chick. Cleared her off the phone.
While I was on vacation, she left a message to say she wasn’t coming over. She used my name. No, not “hey, asshole.” My actual name.
Me: How does she know where i live?
Qwest 411 operator: We do what we can to help. Spirit of Dick
When I got back, she left another message about shit she wanted to share with me. Uh-oh. A couple of beers and some lies about how fun dancing was (Truth: none at all) does not entitle her to stalk my ass, irresistable though it might be.
Today on the way to work, I am rocking out to Betterman (“can’t find a better man”) and she calls.
Insane stalker lady: Hello, Penis?
Me: Yes, this is Pen S.
ISL: Penis Smith?
ISL: It didn’t sound like him. What’s your last name?
ISL: Huh. I wonder why I have your number programmed into my phone…
Me: No idea. *click*