Top Ten Steps to Getting Followed Home
So today I learned that I have 4 followers (not one like I thought) and that since I posted a blog relating to Cosmo’s sex article, I had 58 page views in one day! What does this mean? It means I’m going to continue posting on things related to Cosmopolitan magazine. I am not, however, going to do that right now. First you need to hear a story. I’m taking a real story that really happened to me on Thursday night, changing names, and making it into a Top Ten Blog. The title of this blog is a bit of a misnomer, in that I am not going to write the steps on how to get followed home; rather, I am going to describe for you the ten things that happened when I was followed home (very uninvited). Enjoy. Again, completely true.
10. Jumping on the Friend Grenade. While at a bar on Thursday, a few pieces of fresh meat came into the bar and were descended upon like vultures. While I am female, an overwhelmingly large group of people will tell you that I am basically a bro and that I act as a wing-woman very well. So while the less drunken idiots had isolated the fresh meat for drinks and chats, I was being witness to a very drunk Jack trying to edge his way into each conversation. I immediately knew what I had to do. I put on my chain mail, epaulets and gauntlets and pulled Jack aside for a slurred conversation of my own.
9. Leaving and Cutting Ties. After a stunning rendition of “All I want to do is kiss you” and “You’re like the most amazing person in here” and a healthy side of “If you want me to go away, I’ll go away,” I had decided I’d had enough. I got up to leave, said goodbye to the friends who were still fluttering about and walked to my car. Where I was promptly accosted. I was pushed up against my car and almost mouth raped. I’m a smart-ish girl, so turning my head, sliding down to get out of being pinned and pushing Jack away got me free for a minute or two. I had to promise to make plans with Jack another day in order to be left alone, but I got in my car, closed the door and drove away.
8. Stoplights Are Not A Place to Talk. As I am driving home I notice a car next to me that looks an awful lot like Jack’s car. He rolls down his window at a stoplight and tells me that his house is in the opposite direction. I explain that his vehicle makes U turns and that he should test out it’s turning radius in order to be on the correct path. He did not do this. The next few stoplights lead me to understand that he is not, in fact, headed home. His noble intention is actually to follow me home. I may have been too cryptic in my response (which I relayed approximately 63 times on the 20 minute drive toward my home), so this may have been my big mistake, but I went with “Jack, GO HOME.” I also inquired as to his intention for when he reached my home. No, I’m not a fucking idiot, but I did want him to know that what he expected was 100% out of the question.
7. Decision Time: To Go Home or To Come Up With a New Plan. So at this point I am now 5 minutes from my house. I have to decide: am I going to go home with this kid following me? Do I call the cops? Do I pull over in a very well lit parking lot and throw a solid right hook? Do I call one of the many friends I left at the bar to help? I’m sure you 4 readers (and any of the lost souls who thought this was going to be a cosmo related post) are thinking that options 2, 3 and 4 are my safest and best options, in no particular order. And you’re not wrong. The problem with calling the cops is that I am friends with his friends. He is drunk, not belligerent and rape-y. Also, I have to see him in the future. The problem with the right hook is that drunken people tend to escalate situations…if I don’t land it perfectly, he could come at me, bro. That would suck. The problem with calling the friends to help is that they’re 20 minutes away and drinking and I was jumping on the friend grenade solely so they’d have the opportunity to “hit that.” So I drove home. I took the super easy way into my complex so that Jack would be able to figure his way back out as soon as I figured out how to shake him.
6. Knowing Better Than Walking Into The House. So by now you either agree or don’t agree with my decision to drive home. Guess what? I don’t give a shit. It’s done. I will say that I knew better than to have Jack follow me into my home, so when I parked my car I stood outside of my car waiting for Jack to stumble toward me. When he finally did, it occurred to me just how ridiculous this night turned out to be. I began laughing. Hysterically. I could NOT stop. Jack got this sad look and asked why I am making fun of him. My only response was a very loud “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN DOING HERE?!” This may have been the break through moment because this is when Jack realized what he had just done.
5. Trying Not to Turn a Stalking into a Therapy Session. The next 15-30 minutes were spent with Jack asking me why no one wants him around, why he is so stupid and why he just followed me home. I don’t know, dip-shit. Maybe because you get hammered, drove like a fuckface 20 minutes completely out of your way to follow a girl who you barely know to her house and then all about cry to her. That may have something to do with it. That said, it’s widely know that when people get emotional, you’re going to be busy stroking ego or explaining it all away for the next hour or more, and I just do NOT have that kind of time. So now my response to every question is “you’re not. It’s okay. If it weren’t two in the morning…” blah blah blah.
4. Escorting to an Exit. Now I have convinced Jack that he needs to go home. He has claimed he is not sober enough to drive home and should just come in. I countered with the idea of sleeping in his car. There’s no way I’m letting this dude in my house. I am now helping him to his car. When we get there he starts up with some bargaining. He will leave in 15 minutes if he can just come in for a 15 minute nap. NO! He will leave if I just kiss him. NO! Actually, that one went like this (I’m using the exact quote because I think it was that good,) “I’m not leaving until you kiss me.” “Well, you’re going to be here an extremely long time, then.”
3. Taking the Window, Jumping Through it and NEVER looking back. After being forced to let him kiss my cheek about one bazillion times, I finally got his car door open, literally pushed him into his car, closed the door and while he was fumbling looking for his ignition key I literally ran over to the other side of my car and ducked down. Yeah. I hid. From a drunk boy. At my own house. This sounds epicly pathetic. I also just made up the word “epicly.”
2. Phone Calls Like Woah! The next 30 minutes included me running into my house, locking the doors and keeping the lights off until I was sure he was gone. I also peed. You’re welcome for that nugget of information. While getting ready for bed I noticed my phone lighting up. I had apparently put it on vibrate at some point. I was receiving missed calls from Jack in rapid succession. I finally answered it to chat with my worthy suitor. Jack drunkenly apologizes and tells me he is almost home. He makes me promise to talk to him the next day (otherwise he is going to keep calling me….fucker.) I hang up and go the hell to sleep because its 2:30am and I have to wake up at 6:30 for work.
1. Forget. Move On. Care Not. Woke up on Friday for work. Felt exhausted. Realized that I had handled being followed the best way I could and decided: It’s over. Move on. No, I did not call Jack the next day (or any day since.) No, I did not find out from anyone if he got home safely. I suppose I should care, but ya know what, I don’t. I’m just a bitch-face like that. (see photo)
So that’s my story as written in a Top Ten List. Should you ever find yourself in the same exact situation…well then I’m supremely shocked. BUT, if you do, my suggestion is to NOT do number 10 as to not have to follow steps 9 through 1. If you DO number 10, make sure you have someone else walk out with you and drive with an entourage of people so that you get lost in the shuffle. Or pull over in a well lit parking lot and land a serious punch. Or do exactly what I did. Turns out, I’m no advice columnist. I’m just sharing a really messed up story. FYI, none of the guys really realize the amazing friend I was that night. One day I will cash that in when I need one of them to jump on a friend grenade…or they can buy me drinks for an extended period of time. I’ll accept either option.
I promise to resurrect the Cosmopolitan articles for the next blog.
P.S. If you looked at my picture from just now, you will be unable to noticed the color of red that my skin is. I’m so incredibly burnt from 2 hours at the beach. TWO HOURS. Also, I’m a bona fide dork.