Busy, Busy, Busy

A guy-friend I got to know well in college lives in my area. He's married with two young boys. I rarely see him.

Other than our infrequent outings, along with the two evenings per year he and his wife employ me as their emergency babysitter, and the 10-12 hours per day I spend at the office, I'm alone.

How do people have so much time for mindless socialization? Why are they not wanting of fulfillment due to their own lack of production? The result doesn't have to be groundbreaking; a trinket, a knickknack, a Best of Blondie mix CD.

In addition to haunting my floor, I have side projects. One at a time, I make past evildoers screech, "You've got to be kidding me!" I never abide by a statute of limitations.

Existing in the age of social networking means eliminating sanity from the life of a target is a snap. My stellar memory and uncanny ability to decipher codes adds to the ease. I remember the name of the childhood pooch owned by the family of the lad who sat in front of me in eighth grade. I remember the make and model of first cars owned by high school classmates.

I won't expose the precautions I take to assure alterations of cyber-profiles aren't traced back to my computer, but I will say that everything is taken care of. And the changes are so insignificant or embarrassing that the target usually doesn't notice or complain.

I work hard to make my enemies think they've been left red-faced by a most unfortunate computer glitch.

In the event a password is too cryptic for even my brain, using one of many fake profiles, I get friend requests accepted with ease. After becoming fast acquaintances, I gather enough specifics to complete my mission.

Target number one was a girl who befriended me during her first week at my elementary school. She'd moved from Michigan and didn't know a soul. I showed her around, every day parted with half my turkey-on-wheat lovingly prepared, then carefully packed, by my father the sandwich artist, and shared innumerable secrets. She was my one true school chum. After a solitary week of friendship, the dimpled newbie was embraced by the popular girls and informally invited to join their exclusive social circle. The loss of a close companion admittedly hurt, but her lone punishment-worthy deed was revealing to the entire school every one of my hidden gems.

Prior-to-turning-18 transgressions aren't deserving of harsh punitive consequences, so I use them to hone my skills, and have some fun.

On her social networking profile, my first mark proudly displayed both her married and maiden name. Even with a domicile full, a bikini suited her frame. Her email address was her first initial dot last name @ the company for which she worked.

Thankfully, she also divulged an excess of personal details during our solo Monday-Friday as best buds. Deducing her password was smokeydayne3762 took a paltry two days.

Upon logging into her account, I learned Mrs. Driscoll, nee Franklin, had been exchanging messages with an old college flame named Steve. Nothing indicated they'd been physical or even seen one another since becoming reacquainted through the magic of social networking, but much of their electronic back-and-forth was ever so steamy.


To: Steve

From: Amy

I let you drip hot wax where! I have no recollection of that and have certainly never done it since! I currently light candles to make the living room smell like a blossoming cherry orchard. I must have been super-drunk. Do you remember that one time in the pool at my apartment complex!? You were in excruciating pain after being forced to abruptly stop when my landlord showed up! Even with my husband I'm not that uninhibited. It's always with the lights off and me screaming, "You sound like Monica Seles--shut the hell up already!" With you and me it was the other way around, like the time you shoved your crusty sock into my mouth! I started to protest but you hit me with a look so smoldering that I had no choice but to behave! Those were the days. It sounds weird but I remember how that sock tasted. It was nasty. At the same time, I often crave to feel it between my teeth. What's really sad is I bet that wretched thing is still in your rotation!


Unluckily for Mrs. Driscoll, the above note was forwarded to her husband by my clumsy typing hand.

I check back periodically. I'm happy to report that my target remains married to the grunting husband that displeases her sexually. My goal wasn't to break up a family. I just wanted her to spend a drive home in agony.

Sadly, she's ceased recounting unsanitary sexual encounters with sock-wielding Steve. Should I send him a friend request?