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Dear Stalkers:

Since I started writing this blog, I've come to accept that some of you out there in internet-land aren't entirely normal.  You seem to think that because I write about my sexual encounters with new acquaintances at swingers parties that I will be wooed by your sexual requests via Facebook as a kind of gratitude for friending me or reading my blogs.  While relentless persistence may be a virtue in ebay bid wars, or role playing games, it does little to impress women online. My silence in response to your creepy requests is not because my computer crashed, or your message did not go through. My lack of a response doesn't mean I am waiting for you to ask me ten more times to send me single sentences messages, requesting nude photos of me. Even when I directly say NO, still you persevere. If only you applied the same kind of will power to self improvement, you wouldn't have to stalk people online to simulate real life sexual encounters.

Maybe you don't realize you're a stalker.  From the text of your emails, obviously you are rather stupid, or in third grade. Perhaps you live in a culture where it is the custom to email a stranger constantly, claiming you need naked pictures of me, my IM ID, or to meet me. You do not NEED or HAVE TO HAVE any of these things. Your life doesn't hinge on my reply. What you need is therapy or a few lessons in social etiquette.

The internet is great. It allows me to talk candidly about my sexual escapades through my blogs, Twitter, and Facebook.  But there are things I don't share, say my real name, address, or photos of my naked body, you aren't going to get these by seeking me out privately.  Just because I'm open to talking about sex doesn't mean I want to have sex with you, or to meet you at a bar.

Internet stalkers please don't feel singled out. You aren't alone in the world of crazy people. At least your stalking generally doesn't leave the crusted computer chair in the basement of your mother's house.

Frequently when I park at school for my late night classes, you are already there, waiting for me in the parking lot.  You beep your horn to get my attention.  I am polite and say hello. When I see you in the halls, I nod, but I avoid lingering. Although you are quite adept at figuring out my entire schedule, you aren't clever enough to pick up on the hints that I am only nice to you because I don't want to end up locked in a dog kennel in your mother's basement. Leaving school--surprise--there you are again, waiting for me. That look of shock on my face is not excitement, and that hand fishing in my pocket is not an attempt to relieve the sexual tension you arouse--I'm looking for something sharp like my keys.  You are truly one of a kind. Even though you have no clue that I blog about my sex life, you still follow me around like a dog in heat.

To those other serial stalkers who follow me on the highway, beep your horn, exit behind me and tail me through town, congratulations. You are the most terrifying of all stalkers. I'm obviously very impressed by your willingness to give up whatever you are doing to zoom after me down dark corridors.  I am not trying to lose you. No. I'm just making sure you are man enough to follow me while I look for a nice dark alley to pull over and invite you into my car. Why don't you put your abilities to good use and become a private eye. You can still spend all day stalking people, but at least then you'll be getting paid.

For the rest of you, please enjoy looking at my pictures and imagining what my face looks like on top of my cleavage. Hell, feel free to read my blogs with a glass of wine, a box of tissues, and a squirt tube of lotion. Just please don't assume that because I write about having sex with various people that I will want to sleep with you just because you send me a witty Facebook message, like "Hey, wanna fuck," over and over again.

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