About a month ago I was out walking my dogs right after the big snow storm. I recall precariously balancing myself on a sheet of ice with two dogs in one hand and two bags of poop in another while praying to the Baby Jesus to not let me fall and break my neck, dear God in heaven. A man I recognized as a neighbor who lives around the corner appeared from the darkness. “Hi there,” he said. “Can I give you this?” I was in a foul mood since I had been sloshing through the tundra for twenty minutes and all I wanted to do was to get inside with a glass of vino, ASAP. “Well, my hands are a bit full at the moment”. I waved the poop bags and the leashes as proof of my hand fulledness. I tried walking around him when he came forward. I saw once he got in the light that he wanted to hand me a business card. “Here, take this. I see you walking your dogs all of the time and I just wanted to give you my card. Can I just put it in your pocket for you?” I’m thinking that this is pretty fucking creepy and there’s no way in hell this guy is slipping me anything but maybe he was touched in the head, bless his heart. After much confusion with the leashes and poop and the poop and the leashes, I accepted his card and went on my merry way.
Once I got inside I see it has his name-we’ll call him Hannibal Lector-and beside his name, “author”. I threw the card in the trash can and forgot the incident ever occurred. I’m not sure why I forgot about it considering he how incredibly creepy he was and since he magically leaves his house the second we walk past his house every single goddamn morning regardless of the time of day, but I did. Today he says to me, “Good morning, Pretty. You look tired”. I’m thinking I guess I’ll take that as a compliment? I mean, he did call me pretty after all. I tell him thank you and yes, I am a little bit tired. He then asks me if I had gotten around to reading any of his writing yet? When I tell him that I haven’t he looked like he just realized he had broken his puppy’s neck from lovin’ on it too hard. “Please. Please read my writing. I think you’re reeeeeeeally pretty and I see you every day and I just want to make a name for myself”. “Ohhhhhhkay”, I replied. “I will absolutely read some of your writing”. “Yes, please do!”, he said as he grew increasingly more excited. “I want to be Richmond’s very own Stephen King!” At that point I realized this guy was cra cra and I high tailed it down the street. It’s one thing to want wear my skin as a suit but another entirely to strive to be one of the worst writers in America. That, sir, I will not tolerate. Leave me now and go live your life