Dear Hamburglar,

We could probably write an entire letter discussing why you are named as such… basically, your man meat is more the hamburger than hot dog variety.  But the real reason for this letter is to tell you that you have to move.

See, you live on the same street as this new, yet to become an ex guy.  Frankly, I can’t risk the chance of running into you.  You are always so confrontational.  You never take a hint. I left the country, returned and didn’t call you.  That’s a clear sign.  If you have to come to my work to corner me for a conversation, it probably means i don’t want to talk to you…. actually, I will just confirm that I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

Everyone always asks me when they meet you if you are drunk.  Its annoying to explain that you are just slightly retarded.

Let me know when you are in a new place so I can resume pursuit of my new, sober, educated, and handsome prospect.

xo

dear stalker,

i realize that my hot 12 year old body was pretty hard to resist, especially since i styled it so well with my white scrunchies and purple hypercolor tshirts.  but your hundreds of voice messages on the answering machine, when coupled with the almost daily notes passed to me in class (intricately folded in strange triangles) was, in a word: OVERBEARING.

i thought the simple “i don’t like you” would suffice, but alas it only inspired you to pursue other strange manners of attention getting.  you paid the girl with the locker next to me to get her locker; you memorized my class schedule and followed me from class to class so i was forced to walk outside in the freezing cold to avoid you; you regularly humiliated me by identifying whoever i had a crush on and then threatened them with bodily harm if they ever expressed any interest in me.  i still remember the exhilaration i felt when david called me…then the bitter disappointment when he said that he had just called to tell me that you threatened to break all the bones in his body and mine too so i couldn’t get away. and then there was the fact that you consulted a psychic about me. not sure what THAT was about.

ah, young love.

i think the last straw was when you hid behind my house masturbating that one night…. or maybe it was a year later when i was in high school and i heard the distrubing story from a guy that played pop warner football with you about the mess you made while masturbating to my yearbook photo. hard to pinpoint the exact moment you stepped over the line, but it was somewhere in there.

hope you aren’t still hiding outside!

the object of your obsession

aaaaaa, my sweet portugeuese speaking lover.  how i miss the strange utterances you have made in my ear in broken english.  the mere week we spent unable to properly communicate using words certainly pushed us into other forms of non verbal communication and is a highlight of my trip to ireland.

I don’t know if your sexiness was perhaps enhanced by the inappropriateness of my trysting with a subordinate at work…. or your accent… or your twenty year old physique… or all of the above.

alas, it could not be a forever love, due to visa restrictions and the oddity of your brazilian ass being in dublin.  your english is weak, and my portuguese is non existent…. and your sleep walking creeped me out a bit.  but the day we spent defiling the company hotel room will always be a beautiful memory.

ps.  i did the translation of your name… i am sad to report it means “billy goat” in my country. yikes.