06.19.2008
Cyberstalking: New hobby or loser’s obsession?
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I never knew how fun stalking could be until I jumped on the Facebook bandwagon.
Being able to catch up-to-the-minute status changes keeps me abreast of the current events I actually care about (Brad was brushing his teeth, but now he’s trying to figure out what to wear – ooh la la).
How else would I know that short of waiting in the neighbor’s bushes peering through his windows with my zoom lens? He wants me to know these details or he wouldn’t leave his blinds open.
My morning routine is a mixture of hygiene, email and stalking.
I keep an eye on my little sister-in-law, browse photos of my high school friend’s new baby and read the messages my BFF’s boyfriend posts to that girl from the bar’s wall. I’ve even looked up coworkers to see what kind of shenanigans they get into on the weekends.
They don’t even know I’m looking.
I’m sure my pious old roommate would shutter to know that I saw photos of her one-handed keg stands from senior year. The job applicant would pass out if he knew I saw “taking huge rips” and “puff puff pass” listed as his activities.
Knowing what a stalker I am makes me super-cautious about what I’m putting out there.
It’s gross to leave photo albums open to the public – heck I don’t even let strangers open my profile. I dropped my maiden name so that d-bag from high school would stop trying to friend me. Occasionally I’ll change my profile picture to cartoons, movie stars or major appliances.
But to think that without Facebook I would have to (::gasp::) call or travel to meet up with old acquaintances is too much for my anti-social mind to handle. Checking up from afar suites my tastes just fine.
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The age of social networking has proven detrimental to the art of stalking.
Used to be stalking took talent.
Used to be stalking was reserved for Tyra Banks fans and dudes who watch the “Star Wars” six-ology while eating String Cheese in their tightie whities.
Used to be stalking necessities included — but weren’t limited to — night vision goggles, a ladder and a super-heightened sense of creepiness.
Then along came MySpace, Facebook, Friendster and other sites of their ilk.
Now, anybody who wants to be a stalker has easy access to your favorite song or if you’re a member of “Friends Don’t Let Friends Play Air Guitar.”
All it takes is a modem and a mouse and you’ve got access to the intricate, intimate details of millions of people.
So-called “online stalkers” aren’t real stalkers. They don’t have to work for it.
Whatever happened to hiding behind bushes, waiting for the stalkee to walk by so you could jump out in front of them and ask them whether or not they are looking for a relationship or just “random play”?
Since when did it become unfashionable to pick up a phone to find out if so-and-so’s favorite movie quote really is, “If peeing your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis”?
What’s more, Web stalkers think it’s all fun and games, whereas real stalkers are on a quest for truth (and, ultimately, jail).
On Facebook, for example, many young women think it’s entertaining to list themselves as “in a relationship” or “married” to one of their girlfriends, when everyone knows it isn’t true, these are just girls without boyfriends who are too sad to list themselves as “single.”
A genuine stalker trusts their target and would be blown away by the discrepancy between social-networking stalkee and real-life stalkee, and they’d probably run home and cry in their faded, footed pajamas because their research thus far was inaccurate.
Most networking sites have an “about me” area in which the page owner can write little blurbs about themselves.
That short paragraph or two — more often than not filled with spelling and punctuation mistakes and way too many exclamation points —sums up why Facebook/MySpace stalkers aren’t the real deal.
Obvious incompetence would be a deterrent for real stalkers, who would see the trait as a flaw, thus detracting from their stalkee’s perfection and altogether killing the genuine stalking high.
Online sickos seem to feed on the stupidity of their “friends,” jumping from page to page to read the word jumble this generation of so-called millenials pass for prose.
So when a tween or 20-something spends hours checking out recently updated profiles, they shouldn’t call themselves “stalkers.” It gives them too much credit.
They should call themselves “lame-asses who are rotting in front of a monitor.”
COUNTERPOINT goes to