I’m baffled by the paradox of my life. There’s a crowd of people out there who can’t be bothered to reply to a simple “Hey, how are you?” Yet, the second I post on Twitter, they’re there. Lurking. Eyes glued to my every move, like vultures circling a fresh kill.
Wouldn’t it be a better use of their abundant time to talk to me? Argue with me? Kiss me? Fuck me against the wall? Ram a cock down my throat? But stalk? Why? What is the point? What is the goal?
If you give zero fucks about me—and ignoring my messages sure screams that—why stalk my social media? What’s the endgame? Maybe you’re bored, scrolling through my life like it’s a reality show, but too spineless to engage? I’ve got a long list of people I don’t care about—ex-friends, distant acquaintances, randoms from years past—and you know what? I don’t haunt their profiles. If they text me, I might even respond, out of curiosity, boredom, or just for giggles.
I’ve never hidden that I’m writing a book about my dating experiences—the fun, the not-so-fun, the hot sex and the crazy stuff that I never asked for. Some guys even read past stories, almost as if they were trying to get ideas on how to outdo the men before them.
It isn’t a contest you should want to win.
Maybe that is why I have so many lurkers. They’re not just curious—they’re scared. The truth terrifies them. What made them proud, they know, deep down inside, horrifies others.
Maybe they should’ve thought twice before treating me like a game, a fling, or a punching bag for their insecurities. I’ve got the texts and photos, it’s all there.
If you’re stalking my socials, wondering what I’ll say, maybe it’s time to ask yourself why are you so nervous? You were proud of your actions, so you’ll be happy for the world to know, right?
This bizarre behaviour takes me back to a story my mother used to tell. She was a critical care nurse, tending to elderly patients who didn’t always have family that would be bothered to visit. So my mum would ring them. “Hello, I’m calling from the hospital. Your mother is very ill. Can you visit her? And, you know, while you’re here, you can collect her money and jewellery. Someone needs to sign for it, after all.”
Bing bing bing! We have a winner. You’d think these people had rocket fuel in their cars. Suddenly, the mother they hadn’t seen in fifteen years was their top priority. Not for love. Not for a tearful goodbye or a chance to mend broken bonds. No, they came for the bait—the promise of cash or a gold necklace. Greed is a great motivator.
Not all the families were happy to be tricked, the fallout was sometimes ugly. My mum would shrug and say, “I thought you’d want to see your mum before she’s gone.” But that was never the point, was it? Greed lit the fire under them, not duty or affection. It was a raw, unfiltered glimpse into human nature—selfishness masquerading as concern, vultures swooping in for scraps.
My social media stalkers aren’t so different from those hospital scavengers. You’re not here for me, not really. You don’t care how I’m doing, you don’t want to chat about my day. You’re circling, watching, waiting for something to gain. Maybe you’re one of the guys I dated, checking to see if I’ve named you in a post, dreading the day my book drops. It’s the same instinct: self-interest disguised as curiosity.
(Okay, there’s my one favourite stalker—hi, you—but even you’re testing my patience.)
What drives this behaviour? Envy? Fear? A need to feel connected without the effort of actual connection? If you hate someone, why follow their life? Do they hate wank to my photos and videos as well?
I wonder if any remorse ever sets in. A nagging “maybe I shouldn’t have done that” feeling. Wonder if the “maybe I shouldn’t have hurt someone who cared so much, in a world of people who don’t give a shit” ever creeps into their thoughts?
Life isn’t a game you can pause and restart. You did what you did; if you’re unhappy with your actions, you can try to fix the aftermath, BUT you can’t go back and change history just because now you’re ashamed of it.
And would you be ashamed of it if it wasn’t going to be published for the world to see?
If the dirty deeds were done but kept in the dark? The devastation produced by the actions is the same, either way.
So, my lovely lurkers, follow my advice and do something more useful than hover like a fucking ghost. Be part of my life, try to make amends or walk away, head held high, proud of your treacherous deeds. Own it, like you did at the time.
I’ll keep living, posting, and writing the truth. My book will come, and it’ll be honest, raw, and unapologetic, and at least when you read that, I’ll gain something, a few euros, but more than I get now from your lurking.