As it turns out, job searches are harder than I expected. Especially for someone who’s never worked. It is safe to say that I never have left the house since high school. About high school: I had dropped out to do independent study at home after an incident sophomore year. I got..fixated on some cheerleader. Would not leave her alone. Nonstop texting, direct messaging across all the Instafam, Tapchat, and Facelook platforms, relentless calls, to her house, to her parents’ workplaces, you get the idea. 

     She begged me to leave her alone, and her boyfriend threatened to beat me up.  I wasn’t fazed because I was twice his size. Let’s just say it was a difficult year for my mental health. (Understatement). Anyways, all this led to a restraining order, which I violated, which would have got me in jail if my mom didn’t spend her life savings on an attorney who proved I was insane. The judge had me go to a mental hospital instead, and to participate in court-ordered therapy and 50 hours of community service at an old folk’s center. Since then, I’ve never really left the house. I am still in therapy, but I usually meet with him once a month, and that’s while I’m playing my games. I like to multitask. That’s why I can’t go outside. Because I’m a stalker. Like my gaming username, I am a sinnerman who relentlessly targets his prey until they yield.

     I never agree to meet with my gaming buddies in person because not only is there a chance they might know who I am, I want to protect them from me, so to speak. Of course, Stu doesn’t know any of this. All he knows is I’m a classic case of “failure to launch” syndrome and I’m deeply troubled, but luckily he doesn’t know the extent nor the why and how. If he did, he'd never let me hear the end of it. No matter how much my mom seems to like him, I will never see him as my dad. My mom doesn’t even know who my dad was. Apparently she doesn’t even remember the day I was conceived and she said it could have been anywhere between 5 different men, none of whom she has the contact info for and none of whom’s DNA did she think to save. That’s probably what started my stalking career: 12-year-old me spending my mom’s credit card on scam websites that claimed they could track down lost parents. 

     What I said about getting a job? I lied. I was going to keep doing what I was doing, and claim I worked from home. I told Mom and Stu that I was a sales representative, and I made a do-not disturb sign on my door so they couldn’t barge in on me. My new life rocks. All I have to do is play video games and now no one can bother me. When I’m livestreaming a game, I tell Mom that my talking is me talking to customers. Mom couldn’t be prouder. In my experience, it’s better to lie to get people off your back then outright refuse to do what they want.

    One day when I was “working,” I was completely bored. Mom had yet to pick up my antipsychotics from the pharmacy and it was a low day for me. I thought that it would be a good idea to make a new Instafam account under a different name and to message Tiffany, the cheerleader I stalked. I called myself “Randy” and messaged her. “Hi,” was all I said. I then liked her latest selfie. Tiffany was in college now, and all her accounts were set to public. Guess some people never learn. She was begging to be prey. Who could blame me? I remember the night she tearfully implored me to stop contacting her. Like that was going to happen. We were meant to be and nothing she said could have changed that fact for me. I threatened to kill myself if she didn’t talk to me, because what was the point in living? Whenever she or anyone condemned my behavior I just told them they had no understanding of mental health. Never mind that they said that mental illness doesn’t excuse my behavior. My phone pinged. Tiffany replied to my message. “Hey,” she said. I smiled impishly. And way down to the bottom of the depths we go….

                                                                  A year later….

You;ve guessed it. I am hospitalized again, this time in the state institution for the criminally insane. Don’t feel bad for me, or anything. It’s seriously awesome. Like a villain in a comic book or something. As I was quietly contemplating in my cell, the orderly brought my mail. A purple envelope with my name on it, and no return address. I opened it up:

Stan,

Before you start making your excuses, know that I am not a victim anymore. As you have made my life a waking nightmare, I’ll happily do the same for you. After all, if we’re meant to be together, nothing you say can change that. You told me that once. 

P.S Enjoy the asylum.

-Tiffany

Somewhere I could hear one of the nurses playing piano. Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman.”