Stalker

I used to think that having a stalker might be fun — and then I had one for three days and discovered it was only annoying.  It started with a text message on my cell phone asking what I was doing.  I didn’t recognize the number and asked, “Who is this?”  “Al,” came the reply.  “You’ve got the wrong number,” I said.  The caller apologized, I said no problem and thought that was the end of it.  Later that day and the next came a series of texts wanting to know my name, saying he remembered me from the community college and was just looking for a girl who wanted to have some fun.  Don’t get me wrong, I like fun —  but the situation started to feel more than a little creepy — and I had answered none of the texts following the initial “you have the wrong number” one.  When the messages persisted, I finally relented and wrote back, stating — I don’t know you, I don’t go to the community college, I’m sixty-five years old, stop this.  He apologized and said “I won’t no more.”  Please dear God, at least supply my next stalker with decent grammar.