The Stalker Diaries
Jan. 24th, 2002 12:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rinueYesterday, I went in to talk to the career center at my school, because I thought that would please my father. I was in there for about an hour, getting tutorials on how to use all the software and a bit of general counseling; by the time I walked out, the psychologist wanted to own my shoes, was considering a more fulfilling career, and said that while I could definitely get a job in Economics she would never forgive me if I didn't carry through with joining the circus.
By all rational evaluations, I live my life in a careless and haphazard manner and should probably be sent to military school until I agree to behave more reasonably. It might even be said that I carry chaos with me and contribute to the downfall of society. However, I embody the Dream which everyone wants to be swept up in, and they so desire to believe that what I say is possible that it generally is. I've certainly managed to carry Valancy so far into my particular insanity that she sometimes forgets she has the option of saying no when I decree something unreasonable.
One of my current whimsies centers around a guy named Connor. I've never met Connor; I know basically nothing about him. However, I saw his car a week ago, and it was stunning. A beat up old E-type Jaguar, the kind whose front windshield is so curvaceous it requires three wipers. Chrome fittings. A handful of rust holes around the back tire, like grape shot from a bb gun. Idaho licence plates. A trunk full of hardware and a three-hole punch. To crown it all, a faded bumper sticker from the Audobon Society.
I dare you to find a sexier car.
Of course I left my number on the windshield.
That was last Thursday. He called on Friday. The message (paraphrased):
"Hi Romie, got your note. My name's Connor. Just moved to town, so I don't have a telephone, and you're not there. . . I'll be in the computer lab of the public library at around 10 tomorrow, wearing a red jacket."
I didn't get the message until Tuesday evening, because I was in Boston over the weekend. Valancy wasn't here either.
So, I'm left with a paucity of information. If I see the car again (and of course I've been keeping an eye out) I'll recognize it instantly. I tried asking the circulations desk of the library for help, but the conversation went something like this:
Me: Hey. Don't suppose a guy named Connor just got a library card and you could give me his address.
Library: No, we don't do that.
Me: Could you keep an eye out?
Library: Nope. We are unhelpful when possible.
Me: Duly noted. What if I placed something on reserve for him, like a book or something, and tucked a note in it and then you gave him the book next time he came in to check something out?
Library: Compelling idea.
Me: Only I don't know if he has a library card yet. Could you please check? You don't even have to give me any of his information.
Library: No.
Me: But you can semi-illegally monitor all of my reading habits for the FBI and charge me more in overdue fees than it costs you to simply repurchase the book, all of which might be thought of as price-gouging and forced-entry into an exploitative contract?
Library: Perhaps you should leave.
Me: I would, only since you've rebuilt the building I have no idea where the door is.
Library: Damnit. Us too.
By all rational evaluations, I live my life in a careless and haphazard manner and should probably be sent to military school until I agree to behave more reasonably. It might even be said that I carry chaos with me and contribute to the downfall of society. However, I embody the Dream which everyone wants to be swept up in, and they so desire to believe that what I say is possible that it generally is. I've certainly managed to carry Valancy so far into my particular insanity that she sometimes forgets she has the option of saying no when I decree something unreasonable.
One of my current whimsies centers around a guy named Connor. I've never met Connor; I know basically nothing about him. However, I saw his car a week ago, and it was stunning. A beat up old E-type Jaguar, the kind whose front windshield is so curvaceous it requires three wipers. Chrome fittings. A handful of rust holes around the back tire, like grape shot from a bb gun. Idaho licence plates. A trunk full of hardware and a three-hole punch. To crown it all, a faded bumper sticker from the Audobon Society.
I dare you to find a sexier car.
Of course I left my number on the windshield.
That was last Thursday. He called on Friday. The message (paraphrased):
"Hi Romie, got your note. My name's Connor. Just moved to town, so I don't have a telephone, and you're not there. . . I'll be in the computer lab of the public library at around 10 tomorrow, wearing a red jacket."
I didn't get the message until Tuesday evening, because I was in Boston over the weekend. Valancy wasn't here either.
So, I'm left with a paucity of information. If I see the car again (and of course I've been keeping an eye out) I'll recognize it instantly. I tried asking the circulations desk of the library for help, but the conversation went something like this:
Me: Hey. Don't suppose a guy named Connor just got a library card and you could give me his address.
Library: No, we don't do that.
Me: Could you keep an eye out?
Library: Nope. We are unhelpful when possible.
Me: Duly noted. What if I placed something on reserve for him, like a book or something, and tucked a note in it and then you gave him the book next time he came in to check something out?
Library: Compelling idea.
Me: Only I don't know if he has a library card yet. Could you please check? You don't even have to give me any of his information.
Library: No.
Me: But you can semi-illegally monitor all of my reading habits for the FBI and charge me more in overdue fees than it costs you to simply repurchase the book, all of which might be thought of as price-gouging and forced-entry into an exploitative contract?
Library: Perhaps you should leave.
Me: I would, only since you've rebuilt the building I have no idea where the door is.
Library: Damnit. Us too.
