Stalkers have changed.
It’s no longer about normal people with hobbies or jobs. Now, it’s about patposters pretending to be lamps, toasters, and ottomans for laughs on social media.
They infiltrate my den, not physically, but through my feed. A chair I sloppily assembled now has 30K followers. My fridge claims to overflow with pepperoni. My favorite toilet critiques my bowel movements.
The line between reality and performance is gone. It’s not about Robert Prongay anymore—it’s about power, attention, and the slow erosion of my sanity.
But I have my weapon. My truth.
“Enjoy prison, stalker child,” I tell them. It’s my rallying cry, my shield against the madness. A promise that I will not let the idiots win.
Let them pose as my desk lamp. Let them caption photos of my couch. I will not waver. I will stand firm.
Because this is my half-hovel.
And I?
I am a fat faggot with bitch tits.