Monday, April 8, 2013

Selfies, a stalker, and striped underwear.

 Having a stalker makes me aware of several things. One, I wear WAAAY too many stripes. Seriously. I obviously took those college J Crew catalogues to heart, because all of these stripes are ridonkulous. People probably place bets on whether my underwear are striped.
Two, I don't get selfies at all because I have no need for them. Why would I, when I have this adorable little creeper stealing around corners and taking pictures of me all the time? Over nine hundred on my phone, at last count. Some, I am aware of the snapping away, but others, I am engrossed in conversations with friends or looking at my salad or sleeping. Nothing creepy about that. No sir.
 I have been spending an extraordinary amount of time in IKEA these days. In my stripes. I draw the line at eating Swedish Meatballs or wearing yellow, but there are far too many pictures of me standing in an IKEA line.

 I hate pictures of myself ninety-nine percent of the time. The one percent, are usually taken by the Stalkerazzi. He gets me. The me that isn't cheesing for the camera, showing all my teeth, or smiling so that one eye squints. I actually love this picture, even though it is not the most flattering. He caught me in deep conversation at my favorite restaurant (Hello, Bella!!) with one of my favorite people as I was soaking up her words.
...and he lets me be stupid. I can stick my head in a shark's mouth, lick a lucky dollar, belt out a Sugarland song, pet a stingray and sing it a lullaby, crawl through the kiddie tunnel at IKEA, or get a chocolate milk mustache, and he will not only encourage it, but also get the proof on camera. Just in case there is blackmail money to be made in the future, I suppose.
 Look. IKEA. Color me surprised.
Occasionally, I tell him to knock it off. Tell him I am going to get a bodyguard. Until I remember he IS the ten-year-old bodyguard. Oof.
More stripes. At Ikea. Judge away. I totally would...
And yet, when I try to photograph the photographer, this is what I get. A shock of hair, and nothing more. Turkey kid.

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