Faded Boxers

It seems that I have a stalker. And a very good one at that.

She knows my full name, my complete address, my birthday, my cellphone number, and the fact that my girlfriend is out of the country.

Although I’ve shown her how mean I can be through text, she still hasn’t given up calling and texting despite the fact that I’ve been ignoring her.

From her messages, I’ve gathered that she saw me during one of my doctor’s appointments and has somehow gotten my information from my doctor’s secretary. The temptation to report the secretary to my doctor is so great, but what’s stopping me is the fact that she can play with my medical records and God knows what else.

But at the moment, the ignoring thing has had an effect as she hasn’t been texting as much.

Rach joked that maybe I should agree to meet up with my stalker on the off chance that she may be hot. Ordinarily, I would probably take her up on that offer, but from what I remember from my visit to the doctor’s office, I was the best looking person there. And that’s not saying much since I am just one step above The Thing. Nice try Rach. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.

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Anyway, should I be bothered that the great Conrado de Quiros only texts me to see if I can supply him with some serial numbers for–ehem—not exactly legally procurred software products?

Gawd, I miss being a showbiz writer.

Hopefully, if all goes well, I’ll probably get a gig writing part time for my old magazine.