And so, the hunter becomes the prey...

There's this man that I see in the parking garage sometimes, and we do the usual hello, how ya doin' bullshit that you always do with strangers that you see often. The other day he mentioned that I was there early. Then he mentioned something about the place I work. A few days later he asked me something about the building I work in.

I started wondering, what if I'm his Fudgelover? Maybe he's stalking me. Maybe he's over there writing on his blog about the girl with the retarded license plate. (because, honestly, my license plate is retarded, but it does help me identify my car in a crowded parking lot, as I've mentioned before) Maybe he peeks into my car to find out more about me.

You can't tell much about me by my car either. Other than the carseat in the back giving away the fact that I'm a mom, it's pretty typical. CD's, Altoids, Kleenex. FM transmitter for my iPod which I hatehatehate. He might wonder about the passenger seatbelt always being buckled. But nothing else would stand out.

Well, maybe the empty beer cans and used syringes.
But everyone has those in their cars, right?