[PancakeBrah]

What if her husband dies and she latches onto you emotionally and tries to marry you? Like, you guys are fucking and her phone goes off. She reaches for the phone as you're aggravated assaulting her with your fists. It's a text. "Hey your husband died." She puts the phone down. Looks at you. Calls you 'new husband'. Via anime, she thinks you absorbed her husbands soul because she was cheating on him with you when he died. Like a samurai. She stalks you for the rest of your days. You fend off her advances for years, knowing she's crazy. But eventually, long after Netcees.org is a dead website, you find yourself sitting alone in your apartment. The years have taken their toll on you. You never made it like you thought you would. Life's okay, but kind of pointless. Aimless. The beard is more gray than colored now. There's a bald spot. Maybe you're a few Maker's Marks in. You get one of her dozen daily texts. You had blocked her number, but a few weeks ago you secretly unblocked her. Don't know why. Bored, needed something. Not quite sure what. You find that she's still texting, despite being blocked. Your previous weariness of her insanity is still there, but it's mixed. What's that? Intrigue? I mean, it has been awhile. Maybe it won't be so bad, to have someone who's obsessed with you and thinks you absorbed her dead husband's soul. It can't be worse then the nightly loneliness and hidden but oh so real case of adult onset alcoholism. So, again, you get the text. Your wrinkled thumb hovers over the hologram keypad of the iPhone 25. Not really sure what to say. You open up the Makers, already half empty at this point, and take a long pull. Her text reads "BAGS SAN; pls reply. Miss husbands soul xoxo p.s. new buttplug". You can't help but grin. Still up to her old tricks, the psycho bitch. Fuck it. You reply "Want to come over?". Jokes on you, she's been waiting outside. She comes in. Calls you husband. You're not sure if serious, but it's okay. Someone's here. Anyone's here. There's no time for flirtation. You guys get right back to your old ways. Sex that's considered felonious in most states. During post-coitus you reflect on your shame and wonder at what exact point everything went so wrong. But there's no longer any time for that. You look over and she's not in the bed? "Hey where are you?" No response. You get out of bed, still drunk. You walk out to the kitchen of the apartment you've lived in for the past 10 years. She's dressed as a character from Cowboy Bebop and doing a rain dance over a dead rat chanting her ex-husbands last name. You think you should tell her to leave but it's mesmerizing. She stops. Silence hangs in the air. She lets out a primal shriek, grabs the bottle of Makers and breaks it over the counter, holding it aggressively towards you. You think you should run. But the alcohol is mixing with the deep regret and long faded embers of your youthful rage. You sit down and light a cigarette and sigh. "Get it over with." She stabs your jugular while screaming "Pikachu!" then shits on you and leaves, muttering that she "got the soul back." As you lie dying, you realize it's not so bad after all.