From Mr Wedding Stalker

Hi Clare,


You probably don't remember me and to be honest I feel a little stalkerish contacting you like this but hey, even Romeo started out a bit like a stalker, hanging around outside a chicks window hoping for a wee glimpse of his hearts desire.


Anyway, my names Mr Wedding Stalker and we met about 2 years ago at B and S's wedding (is that the right etiquette? Should it not be S and B's wedding? After all it's the brides special day). Anyway, I was there with my friend C, we had an ace time. You taught me the 'Do a poo' chant and I showed you a text I sent earlier in the day to a friend saying it was my wedding I was going to and I was going to marry someone called Clare. Well, I've decided it's time I kept that promise.. You pick the date and place. lol


Would be great to see you again, especially if we're gonna get married and all.


Yours


Blast from the past. AKA Mr WS

XX

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Dear Mr Wedding Stalker. Thanks for your email. The short answer is no, I won't marry you. But since you've gone to such totally and utterly ridiculous lengths to find my very private profile buried in the back rooms of Facebook after 2 years, I'll extend you the common courtesy of a full blown reply.


Of course I remember you from Ben and Sally's wedding, you had an equal impact on me too. You were the one who mistook my playfully amusing chant for a direct order and promptly curled one out during the best man's speech. And as I recall your good friend C rapidly became your worst enemy, something to do with a small bag of crack, and as the special couple were taking to the floor to perform their first dance, you two decided to stage a rather spectacular ruck which resulted in the destruction of a chair, the letting off of a fire extinguisher and the incitement of further violence amongst the bridesmaids. How could I possibly forget how you bundled me into the dumb waiter, locked the door and laughed callously as I screamed and cried my claustrophobia away. I can still remember you waving your willy at me antagonistically through the small window before the serving staff rescued me from the trauma. If it wasn't for finding your missing back of crack after you'd been ejected from the wedding, I would have probably sat rocking in the corner for the remainder of the night.


And as for the wedding proposal, well, I do believe your text message read 'I'm sat next to this broad called Clare. She's not much on the eyes mind, but she's fucked enough I reckon I can fool her into agreeing to marry me. I know I'm washed up, passed it, and down and out, so this is my only hope. I have the roofies on standby. Just in case.' I may have been drunk dear boy, but I could still read. May I suggest in future you sort your first approach tactic and follow up routine out. Violence, faeces and Rohypnol on day 1 and a casual yet ultimately stalkerly email 2 years later is hardly textbook. And on that note, adieu. Which is French for 'fuck off, fuckface.'


Never yours, Claire


PS. My name has an i in it. I think all along, you may have been mistaken