Crazy Rabbit Lady

[Self Pitying Shit]

I just found out that someone I used to be friends with at uni (but that ended because she was a liar and not a nice person) has gotten married. And here I am a 'crazy rabbit lady' with 13 rabbits as my only friends, living back at home, not able to work and going no where.

As much as I hate her, I wish I had someone who cared for me like her husband must surely care for her (although in fairness, I don't know for sure what their relartionship ios like because she is a fairly dependent person). And I wish I had a life like her, everytime I try it goes arse over tit, or sometimes I can't even try because of how my mental state is.

I had a dream last night that Beth from Dog the Bounty Hunter (as in Dog's wife) became a sort of surrogate mum to me. She's so good with her kids and family, I just wish I had that from someone. I dream about having someone care almost every single night, its a variety of different people but people I have come across either in person or on tv or something. Even though they are dreams I still wake up feeling comforted by them, how sad.

[/Self Pitying Shit]

 

I’ve got to hand it to the Black Pearl – she knows how to hide in plain sight.

I’ve run through most of my standard checks, and I’ve still not got her cornered. Clearly she’s not a rabbit. She’s … well, I’m not sure what she is. I just know I need to know more about her. But she’s not making it easy.

Usually it goes like this. If I’ve spotted them, I have a fix on their location. All I have to do is get a name – and sometimes all it takes is a first name – and I’m on their trail. Location, identification: two data points, and that’s all you need to make a straight line.

Take the rabbit in Athens. (No, wait! I already did that. LOL! I slay myself.)

I first spotted her in a bar near the University of Georgia. She was berry brown and apple pie pretty, with a bright-eyed, open face that had always been the one to say, “But I hope we can still be friends.”

Her name was Lisa. I know, because I was sitting in the next booth, listening.

The conversation wasn’t anything special – just the usual drunken gossip. And Lisa fit right in, laughing at all the right places. She praised the hip and ridiculed the everyday. Just an ordinary rabbit, trying to blend in.

The name “Lisa” wasn’t much to go on but it was a safe bet she went to UGA, so I started there. She didn’t look old enough to be a graduate student but I checked all the university webpages nevertheless — you never can tell when someone will post pictures of the lab group or the barbeque at the Dean’s house.

And I lucked out: buried in a campus news thread about intramural sports - her dorm’s beach volleyball team took the title – I found her picture: “Sophomore Lisa Pogue serves for Reed Hall.”

Score! First and last name and where she lives. A little more digging and I found her student profile. Young Lisa grew up in Savannah and was a lifelong fan of UGA (Go Dawgs!). She enjoyed photography, water sports, and music. And best of all, she invited me to find her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter.

Now how rude would it be for me to turn down such a warm invitation? Her Facebook profile was for friends only, but I had only to click on the birdie to follow LisaPogue of Athens, GA on Twitter.

Poor Lisa. She hated the food on campus, found sociology intolerably dull, loved A Fine Frenzy, and “OMG! Just met the hottest guy EVER at the 40 Watt Club.” One Sunday after reading her tweet (”SOOOooo hungover but the most amazing party ever – THANK YOU, MELISSA!!”), I sent Lisa a friend request with the note “Enjoyed talking with you last night at Melissa’s. Went home and listened to Liar, Liar – you’re right!”

Within an hour I was in.

Her photos were the best — and I don’t just mean the photos of her, which were quite fine (the girl had lingerie that would make a pole dancer blush). I mean the photos SHE took. Her favorite bar was Room 13. She drove a red Miata with dancing hula girl on the dash. Her cat’s name was Roscoe.

I also learned that her Grandma Tula was about to turn 75, and Lisa was not looking forward to wasting a perfectly good Saturday afternoon driving all the way down to Wrayswood.

Wrayswood. Isn’t that in the Oconee National Forest?

It would be indiscreet to share more. Unlike little Lisa, I prefer to keep private affairs private.

I guess I’m more like the Black Pearl, the secretive Darcy Blackmore. Perhaps she’s realized that “profile” can have more than one meaning?

Looks like I’ll have to do Darcy old school.