LOOK - it's a Stalkadillo. Everybody stare and gawk and point your most appropriate finger! Watch him scurry back into the darkness, back into the recesses of the weeds….He's afraid to be seen, afraid to be witnessed at what he does so flagrantly in the covert culvert gutters of time's tide. He's a sneaky peeker; he's a peeping Tom. He's the filthy cockroach dirtying the world when no one's around to catch him at it. He's "a termite choking on the splinters," of his own making. He's a self-made sicko. A delusional Dameon. He's worked so hard to be hated. He's toiled endlessly to be mocked. He's exceeded excessively in earning the titles of Village Idiot and Court Pester. He's the very boil festering on the previously smooth pristine behind of logic and sanity. He's the skewed warping of rationality and reality. He's the plague of black lunacy. He's not black. He's the new definition of a white lie that's not benign. He's the malignancy in maniacal megalomaniac mania. He's the spin master of slander. He's the vile bile of violation. He's the infected wart like contortion that won't go away. He's the perpetrating perpie-twerp. He's a predatory plunderer of all that's good or potentially better. He's the waste in space pushing the outer limits of his self-created self-centered narcissistic Twilight Zone. He's that self-imposed crook in the land of crooked investigators gone insane. He's the very circus in a worm infested park monkey's pants playing the wrong songs to get his tokens. Tokens of what? Whatever he can get away with. He's the stupor star attraction on his own freak show. And he's failed the psychiatric word association test! He declares absurdities with the same glee as others might eagerly declare the splendor of a massive bucket of free sparkling diamonds. "But T-H-E-N I found your poetry…" He stated such a ludicrous statement once with the grand flourish of a fool in an euphoric fever of temperature induced trance. He said he didn't know how he was going to get at me before this empty discovery. His mouth is a bubbling over septic tank of depraved nonsense. He lives for the pathetic joy of revenge and delusions and projections, which all grow and multiply and sprout wildly in his mind's puddle as weeds in an unpruned fertile field. His damages revolve around that perpetually revolving door of his investigative stalking vendetta's shortcomings. And it's getting worse. And it's getting worse -- the victim won't be a quality victim anymore. There's nothing more terrible, there's nothing more insulting to a Stalkadillo's dillo of dastardly deeds than a victim off the chipmunk wheel of meek shuddering terror. LOOK - it's a Stalkadillo. Everybody stare and gawk and point your most appropriate finger! Watch him scurry back into the darkness, back into the recesses of the weeds….He's afraid to be seen, afraid to be witnessed at what he does so flagrantly in the covert culvert gutters of time's tide. He's a sneaky peeker; he's a peeping Tom. He's the filthy cockroach dirtying the world when no one's around to catch him at it. He's "a termite choking on the splinters," of his own making. He's a self-made sicko. A delusional Dameon. He's worked so hard to be hated. He's toiled endlessly to be mocked. He's exceeded excessively in earning the titles of Village Idiot and Court Pester. He's the very boil festering on the previously smooth pristine behind of logic and sanity. He's the skewed warping of rationality and reality. He's the plague of black lunacy. He's not black. He's the new definition of a white lie that's not benign. He's the malignancy in maniacal megalomaniac mania. He's the spin master of slander. He's the vile bile of violation. He's the infected wart like contortion that won't go away. He's the perpetrating perpie-twerp. He's a predatory plunderer of all that's good or potentially better. He's the waste in space pushing the outer limits of his self-created self-centered narcissistic Twilight Zone. He's that self-imposed crook in the land of crooked investigators gone insane. He's the very circus in a worm infested park monkey's pants playing the wrong songs to get his tokens. Tokens of what? Whatever he can get away with. He's the stupor star attraction on his own freak show. And he's failed the psychiatric word association test! He declares absurdities with the same glee as others might eagerly declare the splendor of a massive bucket of free sparkling diamonds. "But T-H-E-N I found your poetry…" He stated such a ludicrous statement once with the grand flourish of a fool in an euphoric fever of temperature induced trance. He said he didn't know how he was going to get at me before this empty discovery. His mouth is a bubbling over septic tank of depraved nonsense. He lives for the pathetic joy of revenge and delusions and projections, which all grow and multiply and sprout wildly in his mind's puddle as weeds in an unpruned fertile field. His damages revolve around that perpetually revolving door of his investigative stalking vendetta's shortcomings. As for those listening skills, perhaps he could begin with the voices within his own distorted head!
By Lady Lost
Copyright © 2002
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