Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies by Laura Stampler

Author:Laura Stampler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse

22

7 SIGNS YOU’VE SPENT TOO MUCH TIME SOCIAL MEDIA STALKING YOUR CRUSH

The first step of recovery is admitting you have a problem, right?

I tell McKayla that this week’s blog post is service journalism. It’s a way to teach our impressionable Shift readers about when they’ve descended into the realm of borderline creepy. What not to do.

I find no compelling reason to tell her that over the course of the past twenty-four hours—while I waited futilely for Carter to make some form of contact (although why would he, since I totally ditched him?)—I’ve committed every single social media stalking faux pas on this list. Including:

1. You know his middle name.

(Emerson.)

2. You also know the names of his parents, siblings, and childhood pet.

(RIP Meowy the cat.)

3. You know what he was for Halloween last year.

(A shark.)

4. And the year before.

(Trick question: He didn’t wear a costume.)

5. You know that the girl in his fourth most recent profile picture is his sister.

(Bianca Bosh. She goes to Yale.)

6. You accidentally favorited one of his ex’s Instagrams . . . from 97 weeks ago. And then proceeded to have a panic attack.

(But I think I unfavorited it before anyone noticed?)

7. You know his jersey number from his basketball team.

(This one is a test for in case Carter reads the article. He didn’t play sports in high school.)

But Carter doesn’t read the article. No one does.

“What do you think?” I ask McKayla when she’s finished the listicle.

“What I think is that it’s not what I asked for.” McKayla puts down her tablet and gives me a death glare. “Because what I asked for was action. A date. Because you’re the dating blogger.”

Damn. She did. And it wasn’t a suggestion. McKayla doesn’t suggest; she orders.

“Well, I was supposed to meet up with a guy this weekend, but it kind of fell through,” I confess, nervously looking down at her desk. “So I pivoted directions. The stalking post is kind of funny though, right?”

“I don’t care if this one’s funny. Write the blog I want. Your date fell through? Find another one! I’ll even be generous and let you go on it during the workday so I can have the story by Wednesday morning.”

As if it’s so easy to just pick up a random guy off the street. Contrary to what I’ve written, I know that it’s anything but. Not wanting to break my ubercool desirable-to-all cover, I pose a different concern.

“What if, on such short notice and all, I can only find a boring date? Something uninteresting and unblogworthy?”

McKayla stands and walks toward her window to get a view of the Hudson River, letting me stew in the silence. Then she turns.

“Journalists don’t allow themselves to have mediocre dates. If you’re even a little competent—which I’m now questioning—you’ll find a way to make it interesting. Ask questions. Push his boundaries. Juice the date for everything it’s worth. Why aren’t you writing this down?”

I pull out my yellow notebook and start writing. Maybe I should reconsider my goal for this internship.

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