WHO ARE YOU STALKING?

Back in high school…. Kevin and I were inseparable. We used to skip school together, date the same girls — at the same time — and were arrested together. Good times and bad, thick and thin or any other cliche you want to fill in here. No matter what, we were there for each other. Then I went off to college and we drifted. Looking back twenty years later, that’s no big shocker. With hindsight, I think Kevin was jealous. He was always slightly ahead of me in high school — hooked up with the slightly better looking girls, was able to bench press a bit more, a little better in sports, etc. But when I was in college, none of that mattered anymore. When I went home on breaks, he would throw in jabs about how I had changed. Maybe I had, but I think it was more jealousy that I was experiencing all of these new things in college and here he was just sitting around and still working at the local pizzeria.

By my third year of college, we lost touch completely. I stopped going home on breaks and he stopped calling. (I stopped calling too.)  By senior year, I didn’t even think about how we lost touch. It wasn’t until recently that that happened. About a week ago — or about twenty years later — I got real curious about what happened to Kevin so I searched Google to see if I could find any traces of him. Unfortunately, he has a very common name, so it wasn’t easy at all. I tried to put in his name and his city… Nothing. Then I put in the state. Still nothing. I knew he had a brother, so I entered the brother’s information and that worked!

I found the brother, Joe. He was a cop — makes sense since Joe was the biggest delinquent when we were younger.  I saw Joe lived in a town not too far from where we grew up.  So I paid the money on one of those People Finders sites to get his number and I called him. The conversation was far from stilted. He was really happy to hear from me. Being old best friends with his brother, I knew him pretty well when we were kids too. He sounded the same. He just got married recently and I congratulated him. I didn’t want it to seem like I called just to find out how Kevin was. Even though, I kinda did. Eventually, I asked him how Kevin was.  Turned out Kevin was great and was working as a mechanic at a garage one of our other friends now owns.

Yesterday, I surprised Kevin at the garage and, if there was any anomysity, it’s no longer there. We were friends all over again — talking about old times and catching up each other on new times. We have plans to go to dinner next week with both our families. It’s good to have Kevin back in my life.

Then we want you writing for us! That’s right, you can write your own Google Stalking story and then we’ll post it. Cheese and crackers! All you have to do is submit your Google Stalking story. Easy, right? Yeah! If you’re not totally embarrassed by your Google Stalker story, then you can have one whole backlink, as well! How’s dem apples? Sweet, right? Yeah! (All I have to do is figure out how to give you a backlink, but I should be able to. I’m smart!) However, your Google Stalking story should be so downright embarrassing you should not want a backlink. No, you should want no reputation-defiling breadcrumbs leading back to you. We want lurid, people!

What exactly is a Google Stalking story? It’s a story of how you searched online at Google for someone and what you found out about them. Read some of the stories on this site if you’re still not sure. We don’t want stories of how you found out the square root of Pi by using Google. That’s Math Stalking and that’s way too weird. So let me ask you something, big eyes, why are you still reading this and not writing a Google Stalking story yet? Submit your Google Stalking story… Now! (<–Sorry for the exclamation point, but I felt you people need some extra persuasion.)

I’ll give you a snapshot of my stepmother. We’ll call her, Debbie. Cause that’s her name. My Dad married her when I was about twelve years old. My grandparents didn’t like her. I didn’t like her. I’m not even sure my Dad liked her. He pretended to, like the time when Debbie pointed out how I ate too fast. My Dad would say, Debbie’s right. You should eat slower. When Debbie told me I should exercise cause I was getting “round.” My Dad agreed with her and bought me an Abs-ercizer or whatever those things are that you squeeze into your stomach when you’re watching TV and eating Doritos. Now I’m the one who has to pay for a shrink because I have an eating disorder. Nice!

The final straw between Debbie and me was when she got a Doberman Pinscher. I liked dogs — I still love the little cuddly ones whose nails you can paint and hair you can dye. Dobermans? Not a fan. When I was 12, I was even less of a fan. This dog would jump up on the couch and stare at me like I was a T-Bone steak. I told my Dad about the problems I had with the dog and he said, “Debbie really loves that dog. Just try and cope with it.” Well, I’ll be! Cope? This dog was circling me like a shark. Then one day Debbie’s stupid dog lunged at me and scratched my back to the point where there was blood. Well, that was it. My Mom wouldn’t let me stay over at my Dad’s house until he convinced Debbie to lose the dog. The dog stayed. Luckily, my Dad’s marriage was falling apart.

About a three months after that, my Dad and I reconciled when he finally separated from Debbie. Later, bitch! And bye to the dog too. This was over fifteen years ago and we never spoke of it again… Until recently. One night at dinner with my Dad, I brought up the old battle axe. I asked him if he had heard anything from her or knew what she was up to. He said he used to pay alimony to her in Jersey, but had no idea where she was now. Well, I had to know.

When I get home a Google stalking I go. I found her pretty quickly, she was a Realtor in North Jersey. Real ritzy homes and crap. I wasn’t pleased. Then I found a photo of her and she looked the same, but 40 pounds heavier — maybe I should send her the Abs-ercizer. Of course, her realtor office had a phone number. I didn’t have the nerve to call though — until I had a few drinks.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with Debbie?”

“Oh, geez, I guess you didn’t hear, but she passed away.”

“Awesome!”

My heart was shattered, so I resorted to mIRC chat rooms for social interaction. He seemed like a nice guy, but ended up being a bit of a stalker. Lucky for me, I found out on the first date. It wasn’t hard: his idea of a date was to sit in the car parked outside his ex-girlfriend’s apartment, watching her.

*sigh* Yes, I’ve been with some creeps in my time. We moved soon after I realised he wasn’t going to stop calling and I thought I was rid of him for good. A few years before my old email address got hacked into, I got an email from him asking me how life was and whether I wanted to meet up.

My mouse couldn’t get to the delete button fast enough. I only wondered how many nights he had spent watching me through my window.

What do sell outs mean to me? Means they have no business, but other people’s business. Mind your own business! Sell outs mean people can’t chill out without bugging out. Chill the eff out! Sell outs mean they get high on hate speech. Hate on yourself, you big nose donkey square. Sell outs say, “Screw that b*tch. I ain’t calling her ass again,” then the sell outs call her. Be what you want to be, but live up to it. Come correct! Sell outs open the door to the refrigerator, see nothing and then ask their Moms to make them dinner. Make your damn self dinner! Sell outs wear water wings. Learn to swim! Sell outs go to a birthday party, order all kinds of food and drinks then ask to split the bill evenly. Pay for your damn self! Sell outs sample every flavor of ice cream and take like three years to order. Vanilla is vanilla, sell out! Sell outs call their homeboys when their woman’s out of town but then can’t pick up the phone when their lady’s around. Just call a brother! Say what’s up! That is all. Sell outs take two pennies from the “Take a Penny, Leave a Penny” bowl and never leave a damn penny. Stop being cheap, sell out! Sell outs don’t pay child support. They make up excuses why the kid is not their responsibility, but we all know excuses are like assholes and these men are assholes. Take care of your own! Sell outs are old best friends that you find through Google, while Googlestalking, and when you write them to see how they are doing, they never write back. You could at least hit me back. Sell out!

Sell outs out…