I realized a while back I was and still am kind of a creeper. But like, not in the way that John Wayne Gacy was creepy. I don’t have any clown dolls, nor do I peddle balloon animals outside of daycare centers. No aviator glasses or fanny packs.  Just lame ass me.

I always wanted to be one of those girls with a “cool “ story about how I met my husband, but alas, I am just creepy and prone to crossing boundaries with my bad judgment skills. I’ll probably meet my future husband while they’re cuffing me to the cop car for masturbating outside of his house with a lawn gnome I found. He’ll admire my tenacity after my 3^rd arrest and ask me out to Applebee’s.  Over fajitas, he’ll realize that despite my stalkery tendancies, and underneath my dysfunction, I’m actually a catch.  Then he’ll never leave. ~whispers~ He’ll never leave.

1.     The number one reason that cements the fact that I’m a creeper is I did a basketball player’s girlfriend’s entire science notebook in 8^th grade so I could get a pair of his underwear from her. Yeh, I did HER science notebook.  It wasn’t like it was one assignment. It was like 25. I’ve talked about this in other blogs and it still creeps me out. I was naïve…maybe they weren’t even his underwear. But I was sure stoked to have them. Hell, I’m pretty sure I probably used a magnifying glass to search for pubes. Never knew what modern science could do with a test tube! Why would a 13-year-old girl want a guy’s underwear? It’s not like my fat ass could wear them.  So I just kept them hanging out in my creeper caboodle box along with my diary and some nasty poems I wrote. Am I weird for this? Or should I leave this to be discussed with a therapist, as it’s obvious I have years of therapy ahead?

2.     About 6 months ago, I sold a chair on Craig’s list. The guy came and got it, and he was hot, for real.  So I had a creeper moment via text and told him he was hot, and if he wanted a beer sometime, I’d be up for it. He responded with “Thanks for the chair, its sturdy and great quality. I have a wife and kids. Cheers.” At least he let me down gently with his pretend obligations he probably made up so he could delete my creepy ass number. At the time, I thought my creeper text was cute and flattering. Now I see it was just retarded. Live and learn…at 30.

3.   A while back, I uncovered a few color pencil portraits of my high school crush, and probably a million poems about our unfulfilled love. It was painful to behold my desperation and my ridiculous emo musings. Blast you puberty!  The good news is, I never stole any of his underwear. I probably took less creepy stuff like his shirts. I cloaked my creeper tendencies underneath the thick veil of our friendship, and could creep in comfort. I may or may not have sniffed his cologne on several occasions while he wasn’t around, and let out a dreamy sigh.  That is still up for debate. Ok…I did. A lot.

4.  In high school, I wrote a two-page letter to this dude that everyone told me “We think he likes you.” I should have realized that it was scientifically impossible for anything with a penis to like me, but I listened to those bastards. I had analyzed his behavior to a very creepy degree and crushed on him several months before I decided to hand off the letter to him. The letter just said a bunch of shit like “I like you, but do you like me?” How about homeboy didn’t even tell me to my face? He had a friend tell my friend “Nope!” and it was like a traumatizing game of “telephone.” And then the dude didn’t talk to me until 9 years later when we re-connected on Facebook. Desperation has always been my ally and often, an aphrodisiac.

5.  I met this guy down the street when I was around fifteen years old who was gorgeous. He was home schooled or I would have been creepin on his ass the day I got my first pube, for real. We became friends and I started making any excuse I could to just coincidentally be outside of his house quite often. It was so pathetic, cause I never showed my face in his part of the hood until I made him part of my creep routine.  I just kept running into him, and my optimism was higher than usual because homeschooled teenage boys could very well be desperate enough to let me hit it. Just sayin. He eventually started going to public school and became a crazy weirdo. But before that, he was my daydream I had while listening to “Eyes Like Twins” by Wilson Phillips on repeat.

As you can see, I have no game. I’ll never be the bitch who has a few beers and ends up tangling a man around her finely manicured finger. The only way I can tangle a man is with a trophy winning hog tie and some chloroform. But hey, I stay busy?