Not the Stalker
We were set to see “Jagged Little Pill” last week. But my fancy friend got invited to speak at a Vegas conference, so we punted the tickets to Sunday.
And thank goodness. My stalker posted that they went to the Thursday show. And posted a photo from what appeared to be a couple seats over from our regular spot.
I’d say weirdo, but the fact that their tasteless ass didn’t enjoy the show was weirder still. And if the Loge isn’t high-falutin’ enough for you, well. Enjoy paying $10 more to be the exact same distance from the stage. Freak.
Well the really weird part was them insulting me down for going. But THEY went. And sat in OUR section. So, ooooookkay then.
Then this dipshit decided to announce that they got tickets to the next show and made it a point to say it wasn’t on the same day someone else goes.
I would assume that’s me. But she called them stalker.
My theater-going friend read that shit and texted me, um, the one who got OUR (unknowingly to them, forfeited) tickets on OUR night does not know what the word stalker means.
“I don’t want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don’t want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and I’m afraid of heights
I don’t want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window.”
— Alanis Morrissette, “Not the Doctor”
Alanis has a song, “Not the Doctor.” I’m going to go ahead and say thank you for proving that I’m not the stalker, no matter how you try to convince #taxtwitter that you are a saint.