letter to my stalker

Editor’s note: Ladies, if a man named “Mike” approaches you while leaving Trader Joe’s on Bay Street in San Francisco, do not make eye contact with him. Just slowly reach into your handbag and pull out your Mace. Do not feel bad about using it. This man is impossible to shake and deserves it. And to all the Mikes who shop at Trader Joe’s on Bay Street, it’s not my fault if you get pepper sprayed. Blame “Mike.”

Dear Stalker,

I don’t know how to make this any clearer for you, so I will type it extra slowly. Please stop contacting me. Lose my phone number. Delete me from your life. You creep me out. If I knew your last name I would file a restraining order against you.

Several months ago you caught me in a moment of weakness … hungry after a long run and leaving the grocery store with two bags brimming with deliciousness. I agreed to go running with you once because you said you were new to the area and wanted a chance to go running with someone who lives in the neighborhood. You misinterpreted me being nice for wanting something more. (Even though I told you I wasn’t interested in dating you.) Now you routinely misinterpret my unanswered phone calls and texts as playing hard to get. I am not. I assure you, if I liked you I would call you. Just ask my boyfriend.

Your texts asking “What did I do wrong?” are scary. I ran with you once. That was three months ago. Please move on.

Stalker, I already told you I don’t want to date you. I informed you about my boyfriend. I stated that I am busy, don’t need or have time for any more friends, like running alone, no longer run, am moving out of the country, and yet you persist. Don’t call me beautiful. Don’t call me pretty. Don’t call me at all. I find this offensive.

Now, I am officially angry. I am officially declaring war on you. This is the equivalent of me throwing the proverbial sword. So Stalker you have been forewarned. If you text me, call me, hunt me down while I am writing in my cafe, in any way contact me again, you will be Maced the next time I see you. And since you don’t know my last name, I guess we are even.

F– off,

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