I probably will this on myself subconsciously, but why fess up to this when it's easier to cast blame elsewhere. It is a great American tradition afterall. And I consider myself a great American. And like most Americans, I have routines. One part of my routines is getting out of bed every morning. This is usually followed by scratching and then peeing. Not always in that order but enough times that I consider it a routine. Once I am done peeing I walk into my living room area, look around and then wonder what it all means. Not what my living room means, but what life means. And how I figure into things. And on the universal time frame are we in a period equivalent to the Neolithic period of Earth's history and hence we haven't gotten far enough to see aliens because we have not progressed far enough in terms of technology and know-how? And what is time really? Is it linear in nature or more like a mobius loop? You know. Stuff like that. But not on this Tuesday. Nope. Because my routine was interrupted by a small postcard slipped under my door. I picked it up and what I found is below:
Needless to say at first I was a little shocked. Not that someone had come up to my door to do this and I could have easily been walking out my door at the time. Not because I officially had a stalker (Yah!). Because that is kinda cool. Not that my stalker hadn't though enough of me that they would have used something other than a freebie postcard from a bathroom urinal to profess their love. Instead I was shocked that someone thought I was handsome. I mean that's pretty exciting when you don't hear it a lot. Then I got to the signature line and found it was signed by "Max". (As you have noticed, I have altered the postcard to protect the innocent and, frankly, myself.) Of course I figured it was a guy, because I do live in a predominantly gay part of town, but "Max" is also a slightly unisex name. So because I don't think of myself as gay, I held out hope that maybe this "Max" was a she. But how could I know? Thank god for the internet.
I am a very impressive cybersleuth. If you have put anything on the internet, I can most likely find you and what you look like. So if not Google, then Friendster. If not Friendster, then Facebook. If not Facebook, then Myspace. And since I had an email address, I just went to myspace and searched via email and, viola!, there it was her page. Except she was a he, which really wasn't a surprise, but what was surprising was I was on his myspace page. Right there under the "Who You Would Like Meet" section. Where is said, "The chubby guy with glasses next door. And other gays."
I couldn't believe that my stalker thought I was fat. Granted, I am not LA thin, but I'm no lard-ass. I work out everyday. I do the elliptical trainer. Or the stationary bike. And I lift weights. And I watch what I eat. For the most part. So despite all this effort, the person that has the most illogical attraction to me, my stalker, thinks that I am calorically dense.
And see, this is not exactly what I need. Everyone can use a stalker. Well, as long as their not dangerous. Or armed. Or both. Because there is something ego-affirming about someone who has an unnatural attraction to you. I mean it feels good that whatever fun-house image you see in the mirror, it is not what someone else sees. Especially someone who lives next-door and uses free postcards from a urinal and has you on their myspace page. But when you find out that they reinforce your illogical insecurity it's the emotional equivalent of scratching a mosquito bite too long. At first it feels good but then when you go too long it starts to sting. And bleed. And it might get infected. And all that sucks.
So I found myself no longer wanting a stalker. At least not one that thinks I'm fat. So I polled my friends and my sister. For the most part they all had the same answer, except my sister who assessed my present romantic condition and told me to "go for it." They all told me to ignore it. Which I have. And I haven't heard anything from "Max." Except that every now and then I wonder if someday I might get yet another stalker. Except this time it will be a chick, or post-op tranny, and they will understand that I neither fat or chubby but instead "big-boned".
