My Stalker likes to chit-chat, and by “chit-chat” I mean talk at me.
Most of the time I just smile and nod my head whilst thinking please don’t stab me, please don’t stab me, please don’t stab me…or something along those lines.
Well today, she came bearing gifts in the form of—surprise, surprise—pilfered food.
Today it’s a bagged lunch that she swiped from who-knows-where consisting of a fancy-ass chicken salad sammitch and some classy potato chips.
Under normal circumstances—normal meaning “not from a creepy middle-aged stalker”—I’d probably gobble that sammitch down. The problem is that nothing involving My Stalker happens under “normal circumstances” because—well—she’s a freakin’ stalker.
I’m like 90% sure that anything I eat will be laced with roofies or LSD or chloroform and I’ll wake up in my boxers chained to a drainage pipe in her basement and, let’s be honest here folks, that sounds pretty darn unappealing.
Anyway, whilst handing me the “food” she went on a rant about how she hates waiting in line for food, which perhaps explains why all of her “gifts” are things she’s scavenged from garbage cans, empty meetings halls, and/or student receptions.
She also told me that she’s not a big fan of meat, but she knows I am. This is likely why she once brought me an entire platter of ill-begotten deli meats. I don’t know where they came from and honestly I don’t want to know.
How she knows I’m a fan of meat is beyond me, I’ve never said as much. In fact, most of my conversations with My Stalker consist of the aforementioned nodding and panicked inner monologue.
Anyway, where were we…ah yes…she hates lines, she doesn’t like meat, and apparently she doesn’t like M&Ms.
I know that lil tid-bit because she’s apparently got a plethora of M&M cookies at home that she meant to bring me, but forgot.
Now, as always, I don’t know where they came from. Maybe she baked them (unlikely), maybe she bought them (highly unlikely), or maybe she swiped ‘em out of a garbage can (ding, ding)…either way I’m not eating them.
I’ll do what I always do. I’ll smile. I’ll say “thanks!” I’ll take ‘em downstairs to my office and/or the men’s room. I’ll throw ‘em away as hard as I possibly can.
Oh goody, while I was typing this she just showed up with some scraggly-assed cotton candy. Being that this is a college campus and not the fucking Big Apple Circus, I’m just a lil uneasy about sampling it.
Apparently she doesn’t really like sugary candies, so that’s why she brought me the cotton candy.
Come on now, this is getting a little out of hand. Bringing me a sammitch or random platter of dead animal flesh is one thing. That type of thing could easily be stumbled upon somewhere on a college campus on one’s way to the library.
But cotton candy?! Seriously?!
This may be the most concerned I’ve ever been about any item she’s ever brought for me (or maybe not).
Sure, sure it’s probably out of line to assume that she’s just given me an entire spool of melty cotton candy laced with rat poison or something, but damned if I ain’t a little bit concerned.
Anyway, I should mention that after going on her various mini-rants about all the things she hates, she did go on to say that she likes making sure growing boys are well-fed.
…undoubtedly to make us more valuable when she harvests our organs?!