Tag Archives: bad smells

My library stalker (a true story)

12 May

My sister and I must’ve been really hot prepubescent girls because not only were obscenities shouted at us on our way to school, we also were stalked once. It’s possible he just couldn’t help himself as he caught a glimpse of the training bra through my blouse – whatever the case, it was a pretty freaky afternoon.

Sister, friend, and I giggled and skipped down the boardwalk, stopping at kiosks to look at cheap jewelry and stolen watches up for re-sale, when one of us (not me, that’s for sure) noticed a creepy, sweaty, moustached guy on our trail. We sped up and he did too. We stopped, and he stopped. We knew we couldn’t let him get close; if he had a gun or knife, we’d be forced to stay quiet and no one would notice anything abnormal. So we went into a record store. Our girl friend was shaking, but she was to keep guard as my sister and I asked a clerk for help. I held on to her hand and kept looking back at the creep; he also came into the store, though he stayed near the door pretending to sift through records while watching us.

Hi, can you please help us? We’re walking home from school and that guy – that one over there – is  following us and he came in here too, we’re really scared, can you help?

My sister’s frightened tone is what actually scared me; up until then I’d been more curious than anything.

The guy realized what was happening and fled. We stayed inside the store for some time, then sprinted home.

These strange, scary situations taught me to be observant, I think. If I’m paying attention, I’m not caught by surprise – but if I pay too much attention, I might get a little paranoid, as I did at the library last night.

I dragged my sleep deprived zombie body to the computer station for a search on titles to take home. When I got up for a pencil, I noticed a tall outdoorsy type dude in a semi-hidden spot, checking out some girl’s pictures on Facebook. I went back to my computer, wrote down my call numbers, and headed to the magazines section. As I sat on the comfy, elderly-scented armchair reading The Paris Review, outdoorsy dude showed up. I realized he was a ginger – a tanned one – sporting very baggy mustard-colored corduroys, a windbreaker, and work boots. He picked up a newspaper and sat across from me. I chuckled out loud as I read funny bits of a Ray Bradbury interview, and I could feel his gaze on me each time. I looked up to confirm this and, while he tried to be smooth, he was a little slow in looking away.  Haha, you think I’m cute, I thought.

[Unintelligible] Mount Ida?

I’m sorry, what? I asked, as we were the only two people in the sitting area.

Is Mount Ida nearby?… near here?

You mean the college?

Yeah.

Umm, yeah, it’s in Newton. About ten minutes away.

Oh.

Oh, you are creepy, my friend, I thought. He stared intently yet expressionless, with his mouth open long after his words were spoken. His pupils looked unnaturally large.

I’d just gone back to the magazine pages when he said, Is that where you go to college? You go to school at Mount Ida?

I… am flattered. But no, I’m no longer a student. I’m 27. [Fuck, fuck! He tricked me! Why did I tell him my age?!]

I mumbled something to myself, gave him a smile and went to the reference desk to inquire about borrowing the magazines. While the librarian searched for information, I looked to the couch section; he was staring at me, mouth open, his whole face in a psychotic, catatonic state.  Not good. Must go, I thought. Turned out the ‘zines were the latest issues and I couldn’t borrow, so I had to put them back. I knew that would give him time to leave the couches unsuspectingly (or so he thought) to resume following me. Sure enough, when I got to the lobby, he was pacing back and forth, cell phone in hand. I went up the stairs and looked back; he was looking at me. I internally freaked out a bit and ran up the stairs to the third floor. I’ve been having a few too many cigarettes and not enough treadmill time, so it was disconcerting to acknowledge how screwed I‘d be if it came down to a chase situation. So I weaved in and out of aisles, back to the second floor, peered down at the lobby between columns – sniper style – and finally went back to book hunting, reassuring myself I’d lost him.

I hurried through check out and walked briskly to my car, with no sighting of the Ginger Stalker. I’m hitting the gym tonight, and maybe buying a keychain knife.

THE RED SCARE

2 Apr

Pre
Menstrual
Syndrome

Welcome. Today is day 1 of April PMSing. I’ve written before about a highly effective coping mechanism, but seeing as I’m at work, self-medicating isn’t an option. What I’ll choose to do instead is share this fucking burden with you, my reader (and subsequently, friend).  AND YOU WILL READ ALL OF IT, YOU HEAR ME? NO SKIPPING PARTS! AND LAUGH AT APPROPRIATE TIMES!

[deep breath]

A girl who’s in tune with her body – as I like to think I am – can generally detect the first symptoms of this recurring, unamusing prank from nature. This particular month my Redcoat visitor (so charming, all of a sudden!) brings a goodie basket of:

Anxiety
Sitting at my desk, fidgeting and worrying about ALL of the tasks I need to accomplish, thus spending my time engaging in none of them isn’t very efficient, is it? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Even better when I remember all of the personal tasks I have to accomplish too. Clean my apartment. Put up a Craigslist ad to help it get rented. Call Directv and ask them kindly to return the $350 they deducted from my account without authorization or good reason. I have to, I have to, I have to, I have to… PLEASE, GOD, LIFT THIS HEAVY BALL OF DUTY-VOMIT OFF MY BACK, I NEED TO BREATHE.

Neediness
Can I have a hug?
Why? Are you in a bad mood or something?
No, I’m in a good mood, I just need a hug.
Okaaay. Weirdo. [he hugs me]

Irrational Thoughts
Life would be so much easier if I just got married to a really rich guy and could stay home doing NOTHING. I could deal without self-realization, being a waste of oxygen, occasionally debating if I could be classified as the ultimate prostitute, hiding my shame deep into the subconscious with the help of alcohol and drugs for every time I charge the credit card for a pair of stilettos that I think will make me look good and feel better because once someone slips a big fat shiny ring on my finger, I’ll instantly learn how to and enjoy walking strapped to such sadist contraptions. Forget exercising and challenging my faculties and finding a person who respects and appreciates my mind, and thinks of me as an equal, and a life partner with a hot bod.

Anxiety
Oh yea, I already went through that.

Horniness

It’s very strange, because it isn’t sex that is appealing to me now. It’s just making out and smelling a dude’s scent and being touched. But not sex itself, necessarily (though I could be persuaded if I were already involved with said dude).  Note it is imperative that he be manly and sweaty, preferably post sports-match or something. It’s not gross, it’s just my hormones. I don’t appreciate your judgment. Oh, you weren’t judging? Sorry, I’m a little defensive.

Emotional Emptiness
Ever been on a really scary roller coaster, or taken ecstasy, or punched a wall/door in anger? These activities can leave you feeling pretty drained afterward, huh? A black hole of emotions where sad and happy, tired and energetic, talkative and anti-social all meet and penetrate one another, forming a blob of nothingness. Yeah, I kind of feel like that. They’re all inside me, yet I can produce nothing. It’s like a sharp, involuntary intake of breath seconds before what you THINK is going to be a massive, super satisfying sneeze and… nothing. It’s like dry humping for forty minutes, then hearing the parents walking down the hall, forcing you to take seats at opposite sides of the bedroom, borderline catatonic, unsure if you’re angry or sad, because your hormones were LIED TO.

At least there’s been no crying. On the contrary, I’m feeling sort of… RAAWWRR! I just wanna go home and take a long walk with the dog, while listening to music and then return to clean the shit out of that apartment!


Wise yet fresh-faced. I’m definitely peaking.

14 Mar

Went out with a friend last night, with the intention of being home by 1230am but didn’t actually make it back till much later than that. When I awoke still in shoes and jacket past noon, I clutched my phone at the thought “ooooh, what were those things I jotted down that I felt I had to write about?” Perhaps I was still riding the previous night’s unstable mental waves, but I felt I should get to it before brushing my teeth – at least it would allow my neck a little time to undo whatever the couch did to it.

My iPhone notes consisted of:
Not theusic. Pathetic.
U suck. Ur a bitch. making a bad name for women everyoeheb.
Pusdywagon u van e controversial steali g ideas.
Love hanging w girls always with boys.
Tell the we are gonna be friends.
lost food drinks

It seems last night’s most entertaining events will not be immortalized in blog post form after all. I will instead collect here valuable life lessons I pondered on my drive to the parents’ house this afternoon. These came to me organically, as I’m two days shy of a 27th birthday celebration and feeling very very wise. There’s also a slight chance my brain was just functioning a little better after a shower.

Personal hygiene is very important
. You may be talented, funny, rich, and maybe even attractive – but if you’re nasty, most people won’t stand near or look at you. However awesome you are no one will know.

Pick your (inner) battles. Self-evaluation and improvement is what life’s about, but it’s important to learn when to give yourself a break. Fuck it; maybe you’ll always be 10lbs over your ideal weight because consuming beer and pizza is more important than ‘looking your best.’ Or maybe you’ll always be a smoker; you know the facts but you still want that fucking cigarette and you’re going to have it. Perhaps you have a pathetic phobia of mice that renders you schizo for a few minutes until you are far far away from that vile motherfucking creature that deserves massive amounts of poison ingestion causing its intestines to explode into a mass of blood and dead flesh that will rot below the surface forever until a flower uses its remains as fuel to blossom, thus FINALLY setting the world right and why can’t all fucking rodents just die horrible deaths? It doesn’t matter. If you see the mouse at a bookstore, you can grab your things and leave immediately. If you see it at home, very late at night, you can put on shoes, grab your dog and car key and sleep at a friend’s house, returning only the next day when you’re mentally prepared to threaten your landlord until the place is properly treated. Until then you can very well just avoid the kitchen altogether.

Most of the time, what other people think doesn’t fucking matter. When I was suffering from 64 bed bug bites all over my body – fuck with you not, 64, I counted them – I wanted to stab my boyfriend or my dog, or maybe sever a limb of my own with a rusty butter knife because the discomfort was so so great, I wanted any thing that could distract me from it. Sadly, I loved the boyfriend and the dog, and 1am on Monday was really not the time to be bothering either one with my desire to set fire to my skin. I chose instead to drive my skimpy-clothed welted flesh to CVS Pharmacy and embarrass the fuck out of myself while begging the pharmacist for anything I could have that would soothe the itch and put me to sleep. The people behind the counter spoke to me slowly and from a distance, as you do with the smelly homeless person who tries to touch your hair and yell nonsense in your ear, but I didn’t care. I knew I looked a mess, but I didn’t give a fuck. I’m lucid and will get from you what I need, pay, and leave just the same. Go on and tell your wife about the twitchy cootied freak that showed up in the middle of the night. I don’t care.

Same goes for your tastes/hobbies. If you’re keen on purchasing a coffee and two packs of twizzlers at the movie theatre, do it. Just because the four-eyed frail emo kid before you also bought coffee, it doesn’t mean you have to go for soda just so everyone else in line doesn’t think you’re also strange and anti-social. Because a) the emo kid got half-and-half and that’s pathetic, and b) it doesn’t fucking matter. The bottom line is; none of these people pay my  bills or share a bed with me, so… they don’t matter.

Give credit where credit is due. When I come home to find nothing has been destroyed by my dog, I tell her she is a good girl. When I clean out my fridge at work so that bad food doesn’t stink up the office, my boss tells me how happy that makes him. Rewarding good behavior makes you and the other person feel good and increases the chances of the behavior being perpetuated. For this reason I would like to acknowledge the Awesome within a certain Alex from Chicago, who passed my blog on to a friend by the name of Kanayo as one he’s been following and finds “hysterical.” Unbeknownst to him, Kana The Grinja is a friend of mine. Small world indeed. Alex, it is evident that you rock.

Getting enough sleep is crucial. When you’re well rested you make it to work on time. This means you keep all of your good excuses for being late/not showing up for when you really need them. The flat tire excuse being thrown away on a night spent catching up on Google Buzz is totally lame. Same goes for keeping loved ones around; if you’re  bitchy due to lack of sleep, you’re wasting a bitch coupon that could’ve been saved for PMS defense. Honestly, sleep is just good for your health; it’ll keep you “fresh-faced” and frequently carded so your shallow dependence on looks is stretched a bit longer.

It’s time to eat more birthday cake now. If you want to gift me in some way, send me an email with a sordid detail about yourself. Or ask me for advice. I love talking.