Stalker
My own Amber Heard story: Dominique Mainon (April 4, 1970 – January 25, 2012)
From my original blog, RealMeme.com, 2004-2010, back when I still had a sense of humor and spent effort on women. Luckily, the police are usually savvy about this stuff and my story ended like Depp's.
Dominique III - Confessions Of An Inept Stalker
Okay, I confess that I've been a poor stalker.
I haven't bought or read any of her books.
I don't have a hidden shrine in my bedroom.
Didn't bother to figure out her real name.
Or find her address.
I didn't even seek her telephone number, although somehow she got my number in 2004.
I could steal a memento from friend or family, a fetish-worship object but it would require work and I'd have to figure out so much. What items are available and desirable, why I'd want one, determine its sexual potential, where it was, when to steal (or buy) it. Then I'd have to tote it from place to place, wrapped in bubble plastic to prevent damage, insured against fire and theft. Authenticating it could be a problem, too.
Perhaps I'm motivationally challenged. It was a bitch to work up gumption to attend the book signing and I lacked the drive to even follow through with meeting her.
I dropped out of Stalker School in my sophomore year and I often wonder what went wrong. I failed "Abduction 101" because I used twine instead of rope and my duct tape had bad adhesive. Was it my allergy to formaldehyde? Perhaps it was the foggy zoom lens on my camera. Friends insisted that a panel van would help but I stuck with my Toyota Echo despite the trunk space limitation. And the gag.... I couldn't ever get the right gag material, something to produce consistent laughs.
I couldn't get my psychopathic smile just right, despite countless hours of practice at the bathroom mirror. Women never fell for my warm, engaging grin, twinkling eyes or quick, witty remarks like "Hey, baby, I bet you'd look good in chains!".
Still, none of these flaws can explain my lack of murderous intent. And while lack of time & money is a good excuse to avoid many things, it can't explain my lack of motivation. What IS my motivation? I ask myself over and over, like a young William Shatner on a floundering B-movie set. "What is my motivation?!!", I shriek to the sky but lack of inspiration clings to my gut like Grandma's thrice re-gifted Christmas fruitcake.
I was even denied membership to Stalkers Anonymous. I didn't have enough aptitude to make up for my attitude. I briefly thought of stalking the director to prove him wrong but... I didn't know his last name, where he lived and hiding out for hours in the parking lot bushes seemed like so much work. There were too many spider webs in the ivy. And the ground was cold and damp.
Where is my motivation?
Where is my intent?
Perhaps they lay waiting in my icebox, next to the half-eaten microwave pizza and moldy milk carton.