Worrying about stalkers is for people with disposable time.
Which I do not have, thanks to my entire family showing up unannounced to move in with me. Yay! Surprise houseguests!
As a mature adult woman in her thirties, my stalker is the closest thing to a relationship I’ve had in years. No one’s lining up for a curvy woman with a bad attitude, bras with holes in them, and zero tolerance for man-children.
And no, Mom, I don’t need you giving my number to every creepy guy you meet at the grocery store. I’m perfectly happy being single. I have my café, my neurotic overweight border collie, and the shadowy figure peering into my window. I don’t need a man.
