Stalked
Have you been stalked? Or have you done the stalking? Is that you in the bushes outside with the nightvision goggles?
( , Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:40)
Have you been stalked? Or have you done the stalking? Is that you in the bushes outside with the nightvision goggles?
( , Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:40)
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Cheeky Scouser James.
Cheeky Scouser James attends the same school as me. He sits next to me but one in maths and in front of me in physics. Cheeky Scouser James, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I may seem like your average, run-of-the-mill schoolfriend, I am not. I'm the phantom texter you threatened with police action.
I don't know where it came from, or why I did it. It just washed over me. This urge, this unstoppable desire to send you a scary text, and I swear at first I only intended it to be the one. I got your number from Bad Drunk Lisa, and sent you it. It was fairly innocent, that first text, odd, but not particularly meaningful.
"Would you still love me if I was in a wheelchair?" it asked.
"Who is this?" you replied, almost instantly.
I didn't answer.
Only Bad Drunk Lisa, Handsome Devil Wilson and myself were in on it, and we all found it so funny that we thought I should text you every day.
Text number two was less scay and more daft than the first, though I can see why two of these odd texts in as many days might have started to worry you.
"I saw a dolphin today, and thought of you."
Your reply was predictable.
"I think you have the wrong number." I didn't.
And so I became pavlovian in my texting, every day I would come home from school, make myself a coffee, grab the phone and text away.
I wish I'd saved all of our correspondance, so I could apologise for every one of my poetic messages.
The sexual ones ("My fallopian tubes ache with the memories of your juices") were a burden on my sexuality, and I'm sorry for lying. I don't have any fallopian tubes.
As your replies got more and more hostile, our correspondance began to way heavier and heavier upon my conscience, but before guilt could put an end to my morally shaky (and possibly felonious) ways, my lack of credit did.
Yes, Cheeky Scouser James, I felt bad when you announced that you were suicidal and started punching the fridge at that party on saturday, but I'm toping my phone up tommorow, and I just don't know what to do...
( , Thu 31 Jan 2008, 20:57, Reply)
Cheeky Scouser James attends the same school as me. He sits next to me but one in maths and in front of me in physics. Cheeky Scouser James, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I may seem like your average, run-of-the-mill schoolfriend, I am not. I'm the phantom texter you threatened with police action.
I don't know where it came from, or why I did it. It just washed over me. This urge, this unstoppable desire to send you a scary text, and I swear at first I only intended it to be the one. I got your number from Bad Drunk Lisa, and sent you it. It was fairly innocent, that first text, odd, but not particularly meaningful.
"Would you still love me if I was in a wheelchair?" it asked.
"Who is this?" you replied, almost instantly.
I didn't answer.
Only Bad Drunk Lisa, Handsome Devil Wilson and myself were in on it, and we all found it so funny that we thought I should text you every day.
Text number two was less scay and more daft than the first, though I can see why two of these odd texts in as many days might have started to worry you.
"I saw a dolphin today, and thought of you."
Your reply was predictable.
"I think you have the wrong number." I didn't.
And so I became pavlovian in my texting, every day I would come home from school, make myself a coffee, grab the phone and text away.
I wish I'd saved all of our correspondance, so I could apologise for every one of my poetic messages.
The sexual ones ("My fallopian tubes ache with the memories of your juices") were a burden on my sexuality, and I'm sorry for lying. I don't have any fallopian tubes.
As your replies got more and more hostile, our correspondance began to way heavier and heavier upon my conscience, but before guilt could put an end to my morally shaky (and possibly felonious) ways, my lack of credit did.
Yes, Cheeky Scouser James, I felt bad when you announced that you were suicidal and started punching the fridge at that party on saturday, but I'm toping my phone up tommorow, and I just don't know what to do...
( , Thu 31 Jan 2008, 20:57, Reply)
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