I have a secret admirer. Well, it's not a secret that I have and admirer, duh. It's just his identity that's a secret, you silly people!
How do I know this, you ask? He left an anonymous note under the left windshield wiper of my car. How do you remember that it is the left, you ask? I don't know, I just do. I have a wonderful mind for mundane details. It's a gift.
It's always lovely to be admired. What good taste my secret admirer has! But how, exactly, does he know exactly what car I drive and where I park it? That's the alarming part, now isn't it.
"Okay, okay chill out, oh paranoid one," you might say. "Remember that there is an alarmingly colorful Sponge Bob Square Pants sheet covering your entire back seat. And remember that your car is held together mostly with tape and paint? That isn't really the way to car anonymity, now is it?"
Yes, yes, I'll grant you this. All true, all true. But how does he know this? Especially as I often park two blocks away from the alleged place we supposedly once met. But, of course, I often snag the spot right outside the damn front door as well. Hmmmmm.
Stalker or admirer. Who can tell.
If you do hear that I have been chopped into pieces and found wrapped up all snug and dead please send them after my admirer.
Oh wait. You can't really, can you? His identity is a secret. Shhhhhh...