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Facebook Stalking

September 7, 2011

The typed letters of her sentences dragged behind unevenly — brimming with typos — seeming to carry the weight of her exhaustion. She wrote singularly about her boredom and hatred of her job. “I am bored”. “My feet hurt”. “I need sleep.” There was no attempt to shield the fact of a day to day survival. She worked at a fast food restaurant as the shift manager.

She had a son. A day or two ago, someone had written in capitalized shouting , “STOP YOUR LIEING! STOP PLAYING GAMES WITH ME!” — briefly spiking her wall with an intensity that felt out of place. A man. She had not replied. She had instead written plainly (as was her way), “I love you my son”. I “liked” it, because I did.

Last night, I remembered that 15 years ago, I knew her as a person. I went to her home and did the macarane dance over lunch break (Wed-Thursdays were block days, meaning 2-hr lunches) in her parents’ living room. She told me she didn’t like light to get through the cracks of her window when she slept, and that to prevent even a wisp of light from reaching her eyes, she covered them with black velvet blind-folds. She could not sleep without them.

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