...I have a stalker. You know, one of these people that groan into the phone. Only mine's a bit more elaborate. He actually talks. He even introduced himself with his name and said he lived somewhere in the neighbourhood. Now you might wonder why I didn't hang up, but let me tell you that you might be a bit gobsmacked when someone enquires about your bra size (no, I didn't disclose it. And no, I didn't care to imagine what he was doing right then, as he had suggested). Also, I wanted to find out who he is. Unfortunately, his name is quite ordinary, nothing like Hadschi Halef Omar Ben Hadschi Abul Abbas Ibn Hadschi Dawuhd al Gossarah, where you know there's only one in the neighbourhood.
Now I don't take this too seriously, but it does give me the creeps a little bit. Usually, I'm totally oblivious of people in the street. I could bump into Jared Leto and still snap at him to get out of my way. Well...that has changed. I now pay attention to people around me, because I'd really like to know who this wacko is. And it's a strange feeling to know that someone is observing you. He knows my phone number and where I live, so apparently he followed me to my door.
I think I have to move. What the hell, this neighbourhood is weird anyway.
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