Let us indulge your inner stalker | Feature | Chicago Reader

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Let us indulge your inner stalker

The Reader responds to some of our favorite, creepiest, most stalker-ish I Saw Yous


An "I Saw You" is a fleeting attempt at romance facilitated by the Internet, one that could have easily been sparked by suggestive glances during a morning commute on the Red Line. The Reader has been publishing I Saw Yous since August of 2004 (before that they were actually called Missed Connections), and the flirtations, crushes, and stalker-ism have inspired a gallery exhibit, theater improv, probably a marriage or two, maybe a divorce, and countless violations of privacy and good taste. Successes do happen—I recently witnessed a close friend reconnect with her partner from a CPR class, for instance—but most connections remain missed. So we decided to choose some of our favorite I Saw Yous from last year and pay them their due respect with what we believe to be appropriate responses. We also handpicked several more I Saw Yous that are ripe for a response—your response; go here to chime in. —Kevin Warwick

One1eleven from Match

You traded a couple e-mails with me ("jennbarr") on Match and then poof! you were gone. Was it an intentional blow-off or an accidental lost e-mail address?? When: Thursday, December 15, 2011. Where: online. You: Man. Me: Woman.

Our response: Intentional blow-off. Sorry to have to tell you this, but it is practically impossible to lose someone's e-mail address after you've exchanged messages. (It's best to assume that those you never hear back from have been hit by a bus.)

No. 2

We were in the whitest room with the biggest windows. Everything was simple and plain and nothing was there. Everything was there. The floor, carpeted with papers and all sorts of dark colored drips and smeared hand- and footprints. Large papers dangling, stuck to the wall. We were both bare. My breasts exposed, covered in greasy black oil, you poked fun at my nipples, laughing. With command from your face, I could tell it was my hands you wanted to reach up. You approached with a sheet of paper, pressing it against my body, stamping it on. To Jonathan. When: Tuesday, March 22, 2011. Where: my dreams. You: Man. Me: Woman.

Our response: You know, it might not have been the best idea for you to do mushrooms before going to my parents' house. Yes, their living room is white with big windows. The rest was all in your head—except for your breasts being exposed, of course. Where did you find used motor oil to smear on them, anyway? That "sheet of paper" was the tablecloth I wrapped around you for modesty's sake. In case you're wondering if you made a good impression, the answer is no.

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