YOU may be a stalker. But I am not.

In a weird twist of randomness, I purchased a vintage desk online to eventually refinish into a bedroom vanity (you know, when a second bedroom exists in my life, and I have room for sanding and paint fumes). That in itself is not random (OK, perhaps if you didn’t realize I like vintage furniture it may be, so there you go), but the LOCATION of the pickup was random.

When Cool Seller (who read my blog — hi!!) emailed me her address, I laughed hysterically — she lived on the SAME street as 10SB.  And while his street is cut into two sections, and is really long, I had to drive past his freaking house anyway. SUNAMABITZ. Thankfully I didn’t need to park anywhere NEAR his house.

But oh, you know our fun never just stops there. In (another yet act of random) conversation — with my dad — he retold a weeks-old story of running into 10SB at some local event (Dad’s in a band; plays a lot of functions). Par for the course, 10SB was extremely uncomfortable (and likely, silently drunk and beady) while talking to the pops. Dadz even offered up some sort of  cordial acknowledgment to pass along to me, which wasn’t exactly shot down, but “shrugged off” on account of perhaps 10SB knowing WHAT AN ASSHOLE he is. (10SB, not the Dadz, of course).

Wow. I haven’t been quite this worked up in a while. He makes my skin crawl with roaches, spiders and scabies. Ew. I need a really, really hot shower. And a lot of bleach.

So if you think I am stalking you, it was merely coincidence that I was passing through your neighborhood.

And you’re still a dick. Go cry. For good measure (because it’s Christmas, and I’m incredibly thoughtful), FUCK OFF!

That’s payback for making me say prayers two years ago with your family on Thanksgiving.

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