Shug sent me a link to the myspace page of the guy who stalked me for four years. I shouldn’t have looked–no good can come of it–but I did.
He claims he misses sitting on the porch with me.
He also works at Starbucks, is divorced, and still lives in the little town he lived in when I knew him.
I’ve got nothing to say in the face of that.
I always thought I’d feel better if I knew his life sucked.
But instead, my first thought was “Fuck me. He’s on the internet. I bet he can find me. Yes, because some fucker posted my real name and home address here at this site, somewhere in Google’s cache, my real name is linked to this stuff. Which means, he could be reading this right now.”
That bothers me.
It really bothers me that he still thinks about me.
It really, really bothers me that I still think about him.
It really, really, really bothers me that I’m still a little afraid of him.