I glance around the room, scanning to see if anyone is around. No. coast is clear.
I lick my lips and feel my pulse start to race. As I move my mouse up to a new tab, I can guarantee that my face is filled with a sick look of glee, and I would bet money that my pupils are dilating in excitement. I start typing into the search bar. What I want pops up immediately. Of course it does. I glance around one more time, and then take the plunge.
• Am I watching porn in public?
• Am I hacking into a very important computer system?
• Am I stealing billions of dollars? Saving lives? Destroying lives? Ordering a pair of shoes that I totally don’t need but also desperately need?
Close. But not quite. Okay. The page loaded. Finally.
There it is. Those eyes. That nose. That dumb, ugly (okay actually pretty cute and well-proportioned but whatever) nose. I see the face I am so similar with. The face I embarrassingly look at every day. A few times a day. I check my surroundings one more time, then I take the plunge. Instagram. Damn. No new pictures. Whatever. I stalk the same ones again, just to see if I still have more likes. Now moving on to Facebook. Now Twitter. Now her boyfriend’s Twitter. Now her cat’s Twitter.
I am currently stalking that girl I hate. And holy shit, does it feel good.
I’m not exactly sure what it is about hate-stalking. You just sit there, looking at a face you so badly want to punch, but can’t. It’s the endorphins that rush through you when you know you’re looking at a mortal enemy. It’s like standing on the end of a precarious cliff. A cliff where your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend is just hanging out in an adorable dress that she fills out better than you would.
You keep a steady hand as you scroll though her photos. As you’re reading the comments with an exhilarating rage, you plot and plan for fictional situations that will never happen. What you would say to her if she ever crossed you. What you would wear if you both went to a wedding together. The perfect line to utter as you make eye contact in the women’s restroom one day.
Wait. This is new…
And ahhh the sweet, sweet victory when you find some morsal of information you hadn’t yet learned. She tried out for the dance team her freshman year of high school and didn’t make it? HA! She had to wear braces a year longer than you did? LOL. Her selfie only got 112 likes, whereas yours got 137? Helllll yeah.
Because hate stalking isn’t just a pastime. It isn’t just a lifestyle. Hate stalking is an art. A talent. A skill you had to learn and perfect and build over time. And when you become a pro? You develop a deep appreciation and love for your means of creative expression. You did your time. You put in the sweat and tears. That instance, when you accidentally liked your middle school frenemy’s picture from 74 weeks ago? Or what about when you posted that guy’s name as your status, when you were just trying to type it in the search bar? It was hard and painful and you learned some amazingly valuable lessons. But now? Now you’re the mother fucking Picasso of social media stalking. And now you’ve developed an unparalleled style. Like how you use your computer, instead of your phone, so you don’t accidentally like something. How you delete the history so your boyfriend doesn’t realize you’re obsessed with the girlfriend he had before his balls dropped. How you utilize any and all connections, from tagged photos and friends’ profiles, to the slutty little sister who doesn’t keep anything on private (including her privates, if you know what I mean #HelloCleavage).
You are a winner. And hate-stalking is your game.
It isn’t easy. And sometimes you have to work really hard. Her account is private. Her pictures are hidden. She changed her name when she realized how much of a psycho you are. Whatever your problem, you’ve figured out a way around it. Around them all. And after years of practice, you’re officially a pro.
Sure, you know it’s crazy. But do you know what would be more crazy? Knowing when her birthday is (January 31). What her favorite color is (purple, but lavender in the spring, deep violet in the winter). If you knew her favorite food, her cat’s name, or her social security number (buffalo chicken pizza, Crook, 475-XX-XXXX). But you don’t. Because that would be insane. The thing is, you don’t care around her. At all. Honestly you wish she was dead. Not in a “you’re going to kill her” way. Just in like a “you would be fine if she stopped existing” way. You’re not looking at her shit because you’re *~oBsEsSeD~* with her. It’s just because you need to know that your life is better than hers. That your boyfriend treats you better and that her likes-to-follower ratio isn’t as good as yours. That’s all. But obsessed?! Pshh. Not you!
So while some people might think it’s alarming that you stalk a girl you’ve never actually met about ten times a day, I get it. I accept it. And I applaud you for it. Sure it’s not the healthiest thing to do, but neither is drinking a bottle of wine a night, but that hasn’t stopped us yet. Cheers to our unhealthy habits and obsession with girls we haven’t met. If we’re all crazy together, it’s not as bad, right?.
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