Imitation May Be the Highest Form of Flattery, But I Think Stalking Is a Close Second

Tonight, I was shopping in K-mart when two of the ladies behind the checkout counters said something interesting.  They were talking back and forth about the fact that one of them had a stalker.

I, of course, had to get involved in their conversation.  Apparently, the lady who was checking me out has a stalker.  He continually stops by and asks the other employees about her.  Whether she is working.  What time she gets off.  Stuff like that. 

The other employee was letting my cashier know that the creeper was outside of the store and that she should get an escort to her car later when her shift ended.

How did she get the stalker?  How does that happen?  I worked at a grocery store for three years and no one ever stalked me. 

Sure there was one old lady who kept mistakenly calling me a man even though she was eye level with my blatantly obvious boobage.

But never have I been stalked.  I really want to know how that happens.

Well, as I was leaving, I couldn’t help but look around to see if I could spot the creeper.  And sure enough.  There he was.  I was tempted to go over and ask him why he felt the need to stalk the nice cashier from the store, but something stopped me.

Oh yeah.  I remember what stopped me—the fact that he’s a freaking psycho. 

He even looked the part—Creepy.  Skinny. Hasn’t seen sunlight for years.  Squinty eyes.  The Pervert Smile.  Etc…  You know what I’m talking about—he was that guy!

So after quickly power walking (practically sprinting) to my car, locking the doors, and speeding away, I’m left to wonder about the cashier.  I just hope she made it out okay because that guy rates at a 9.2 on your standard Rapist/Molester scale.

I Was "Apparently" That Girl...

All throughout my Middle School and some of my High School years, when most people were starting to join cliques, I didn’t quite fit in with anyone.  I was that girl.  You know the one?  The loner, weirdo girl with no friends?  Well, I was that girl.

I had no real friends.  I was awkward, silent, and creepy.  The only person that wasn’t afraid to speak to me was a punk rockish girl named Jesse who seemed to go out of her way to say hi to me—not in a good way, but in an “I feel sorry for you” way.  Sometimes her constant habit of trying to be nice would annoy me because she seemed friendly, but she never wanted to really hang out or get to know me.

It wasn’t until years later (after we had truly become friends) that I found out the reason for her supposed friendliness.

Years later, while we were hanging out, I finally asked her about it. 

Me:            “Do you remember when we were in Middle School?  What was with the pity hellos?  Why did you do that?”

            Jesse:            “Do you really wanna know?”

            Me:            “Yes.”

            Jesse:            “You were the one.”

            *awkward silence*

            Me:            “What do you mean by that?”

Jesse:            “Well, if anyone in the school was going to snap and eventually blow half the school away, it was going to be you.  I just wanted you to think I was nice.  You know… just in case.”

Touché, Jesse.  Touché.  You were wise beyond your years and for that... I let you live.

"The Professor"

I am currently a graduate student at USC, and in order to pay for college, I had to accept and assistantship. The guidelines of said assistantship state that I have to work for one of my professors for 10 hours every week.

Well, as I’m a new student, I didn’t really know any of the professors. So with high hopes and an optimistic outlook, I went to meet the man I’d be working under for the remainder of my time as a graduate student.

After knocking on his office door, I entered his office. Immediately the world seemed to darken. Starting at the base of my spine and then slowly spreading throughout my body, crushing any optimistic feelings I had previously built up, was a feeling of dread and trepidation.

Why you ask was fear slowly creeping into my system? Well, I’ll tell you.

Sitting behind the desk in the office was the creepiest guy I’ve ever met. He exuded a presence of what I would like to call “Hello boys and girls.  I’m a cannibalistic, child molesting rapist.”

If you still don’t quite understand… When the Boogeyman goes to sleep at night, he makes his mommy check the closet for this guy. Yes, he’s that scary.

On this first encounter with “The Professor,” he was busy with paperwork and couldn’t meet with me, so I narrowly avoided certain death; however, I had to reschedule my meeting with him for the next week.

Days went by that were filled with puppy dogs, smiley faces, and rainbows, but always at the back of my mind was the nagging fear of “The Professor.” For the day loomed ever closer when I would belong to the monster.

On the Tuesday we had scheduled to meet, I could barely concentrate. But the time had come to face my fears.

Sharpening his claws and licking his chomps, “The Professor” was waiting in his lair. As I entered—a stroke of luck—he was on the phone. I wouldn’t have to talk to him immediately. He swiped his claws at me and growled to go downstairs to see my advisor.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. Any excuse to avoid my demise seemed like a good idea to me. I ran down the stairs to meet with my advisor—my lifeline as it turned out. For scheduling purposes, my advisor informed me that I would be reassigned to work with a different professor.

I didn’t really listen to anything she said after that as my world had returned to puppy dogs, smiley faces, and rainbows.

Now that classes are in full swing, I’m so glad that I didn’t fall prey to “The Professor;” however, his memory lingers on—even now—a month later. Whenever I am forced to pass his office for classes, I still scurry by and avert my eyes with a constant reminder of the fear and oppression that could have been mine.