ABOUT ME

I'm 49 and feeling menopausal. Apparently it's called peri-menopause, or peripause. What this really means is that on a good day I cry at the John Lewis advert with the boy and the Christmas gift for mum and dad, and on a bad day I want to throttle the gal sat next to me on the train for tweezing her eyebrows in public. I have a child who is sweet and beautiful and smart, and nuttier than a box of rocks. I am single - as in unmarried, unattached and at times feeling just 'un'. I've got near-constant chatter clogging my head, and not in a schizophrenic kinda way. I thought an online journal might be a good place to deposit my middle-aged chatter. Here goes...

Thursday, 16 January 2014

Drink. Stalk. Bitch.

… A true tale about being stalked...

When you’re 23 and just out of uni and land your first proper job and have a bit of cash to spend on knocking back a few pints with mates, you tend to have all the 'joie de vivre' that comes with being 23 with a bit of cash, and so you knock back a few pints with mates every night for a great many years, pulling and shagging and having a laugh and knocking back as many as you can get down your neck before the bell, until you meet the one you want to shag above all others and so you ask her to marry you and she becomes the one person on this planet of persons who bubbles your squeak, but you keep knocking back those pints with abandon and go home smelling of hops every night, and in time your beloved bubble feels so despairing at your epic bingeing that she leaves you for someone else, someone who promises her all the things you once promised but failed to deliver, and your life suddenly goes tits up and you console yourself by knocking back vast quantities every night, and the anger at losing your house and your kids to the bitch who promised to honour and cherish becomes so overwhelming that you try to quell your rage with a string of women who, in time, also abandon you for pastures greener, so you start to neck it with all the ferocity of a man with a death wish, until your rage becomes so consuming that you hole up in your home watching TV and eating kebabs and knocking back pints, because going out and meeting yet another bitch who will show interest and then leave you fills you with so much anger that you give up on humanity, and on yourself, even though you yearn for a warm body to cuddle, someone with whom to lock eyes and lock genitalia, someone to caress, and you end up wasting away your life with only a Stoli to comfort you through those long and lonely nights in front of the TV, until one day you see a woman at Canon Street Station who locks eyes with you as she passes, so you smile hello and she smiles back, and you take that as a sign, so you go after her and plead your case, reassuring her that you’re not following her but are merely taken with her pretty smile, and so you ask her to nip into Starbucks on the corner for a quick coffee, and she agrees, and in those 10 minutes you mind your manners and act the part and convince her to meet you at the weekend for an extended coffee chat, and so she gives you her business card, and later that night, at home by your lonesome, you start thinking about the woman who looked at you on the street, the one with the pretty smile, and you dial her number and hang up when she answers, and you do it again a few hours later, and then again the following morning, and all day the next day, because she’s a bitch after all, just like all the others, and so she phones you a few days later and leaves a message on your answerphone cancelling your impending coffee date that weekend, and you become so incensed at this bitch's almighty transgression that you wait for her on Monday morning, at the very exit of Canon Street Station where you first saw her, positioning yourself in such a way that she can’t help but see you as she passes, because you’re going to show that bitch just what a bitch she is, and so you glare at her as she passes you, arms folded, hardly able to contain the malice in your heart and the contempt on your face, and moments after she walks past you phone her mobile again and hang up when she answers, and you phone her at work, too, repeatedly, the bitch, and she becomes so alarmed that she changes her home number and starts taking a different route to work, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re not following her, and you care nothing that she is unable to sleep, is having palpitations and anxiety, and is terrified of leaving her desk and her home, and worried for the safety of her child, because you are a law unto yourself and she is a cunt, just like all the others before her, and you’re going to punish her for being a cunt…





January is National Anti-Stalking Month. This is an account of my January 2014…

INFORMATION...

InstantCheckmate blog about stalking


National Center for Victims of Crime


Types of stalkers






2 comments:

  1. Glad to see you're blogging again :). Have you been stalked?

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  2. Hi, hi, hi! I'm so sorry. I've only just noticed this comment. How are you? It's so nice to hear from you. Yes, is the answer to your question, and it happened just as I describe it. How are you? Are you well? I'm crazy busy at work, but fine otherwise. Nothing new to report. I gave up on dating ages and ages ago! Stay in touch xxx

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