Yeah, so there's someone out there watching me

But considering it seems to be a psychic chick with Rake issues not another Agent or Proxy, I think I'm going to be fine.
Good morning, everyone out there that I really couldn't care less about~! Did you sleep well?

I DIDN'T.

I spent the whole night puking and blubbering incoherently while "I love Lucy" blared on the television to mock my misfortune. Seriously. Every time I would end up retching, some sort of laughtrack would come on and I'd curse the Great Troll In The Sky (the GTITS, which is a downright hilarious fitting acronym as far as I'm concerned). One good thing did come out of this, though.

I've had a trail for the last bit. A girl, no idea what her name is, and not nearly experienced enough to be stalking me, really. It got to a point that when I went out (which was rarely at best), I'd kind of... let her follow me. Of course, if she tried to hurt me, she was screwed, but you can only come home from an awesome night of drinking alone to see someone shooting you sad puppy-dog eyes out of your bushes a few times before you figure

"Oh gee, maybe I should DO SOMETHING."

She has little stickers on her mask.

I wish I was joking about this.

Anyways. The thing about this girl is that, well, she's pretty bottom of the barrel for even Proxy standards. Skinny as a rail is something you're supposed the become, not BE IN THE FIRST PLACE. Oh, and I've noticed that she's a TAD BIT obsessive compulsive, if by TAD I mean THAT CHICK SHOULD PROBABLY BE IN A MENTAL HOSPITAL. She got a nosebleed once and ran off, crying, Slenderinfluence apparently be damned.

So when she finally got the nerve to ring my doorbell last night (I guess she would've said something like "Agent Tom, um, we're really supposed to bring you back either alive or dead and, well, if you're dying of something else like normal people I should probably, uh, take you to a hospital or something"), I threw opened my door, raised an eyebrow, and promptly puked all over her.

She shook for a few seconds, made a few squeaking noises,  kind of just looking where my four dollar bargain burrito breakfast had made it's way onto her shirt, and, gasp, was probably sinking through as she shook.

I just wiped the side of my mouth, because there is no way to play that off with class. Ever.

She ripped off her shirt, the squeaking getting worse, and now I had a most probably underage teenage girl squeaking and shaking like a crackwhore who needed their next fix ON MY DOORSTEP.

So I did the only logical thing there was to do.

I slammed the door in her face and continued watching late night T.V. from the comforting spot of being crouched over my toilet.

... There's nothing that would have caused this. The nausea came out of nowhere. The blubbering made no sense. There's now a dozen proxies swarming the area and I paid good money for that burrito, dammit! Today is going to be a very boring day of poking through all the blogs I can find and looking for increased Proxy behaviour.

I never said this was easy, folks. Just said it was fuck I don't even. 

Just... What in FUCK'S name is going on?

... Expect the unexpected, kiddies. God knows I'm going to have to.

--Tom

Yeah, so it's a horrible reference

Nobody ever said that I was creative when I made this thing. Only that I made it. Yeah, me.
I'm Tom. Tom Parker-Fitzgerald, for the un-initiated. I like doing nothing, seeing new places, taking long walks on the beach, sleeping, and, oh right, not being a slave to a faceless tentacled ABOMINATION.

Yeah, suck it, this is a Slenderblog.


So let's get this out of the way before I lose interest with this altogether.
I was raised in a Slendercult. It's my personal belief that you give power to things by caring about them, so forgive me if I don't name names (SCIENTOLOGY). Yeah, I've got some pretty weird paranoias and moral systems from there (my childhood pretty much consisted of "IF THEY'RE NOT CHOSEN, STAB THEM IN THE FACE"), but hey, the second I saw Der Slender Mann on my fifteenth birthday, well.

I'd like to say that I burned the cult down to cinders while laughing like a badass. What I actually did was run straight into the desert while screaming like a little bitch.

I met a guy named Spencer there, in the desert. He seemed pretty nice, knew a lot about our little skinny friend, and used The Path to get me to New York.

A FIFTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL IN NEW YORK ON HER OWN WHO KNEW NOTHING OF THE OUTSIDE WORLD.


THIS WAS SMART.

I actually fared pretty well. I learned to grift (As in a grifter. Basically, a con-artist. A con-artist runs cons. Therefore, to grift is to con) in the cult to swindle more money so the cult could buy more ominous pipe organs or robes or something equally stupid mystical. I lived in woman's shelters and by eighteen, actually had a nice little apartment to myself.

Have you ever stepped out of the shower on your ninth floor apartment to see something looking (well, not actually looking because he's faceless) through your window? I have. So I opened the window and threw a flowerpot at Tall Dark and Ugly before I quickly sold the apartment and went on my way.

I ran for two more years, until I turned twenty; learned to fight as I went, became really good at using anything on hand as a weapon. Ended up using my downright gorgeous physique to stay... comfortably wherever I went, before it was time to pack up and leave the poor sucker to be disembowelled.

But yeah. When I turned twenty, I joined the Agents.

You don't like it?

FUCK YOU.

Having Him in your head wasn't so bad, though. Still got a lot of time by myself, but the team dynamic was nice. As far as I saw it, we were putting those runners out of their misery.

You don't like it?

FUCK YOU.

But as you would know it, this got to be not so fun anymore. I didn't like how ol'Slendy operated did shit, so in the middle of a mission, I turned around, shot my two "partners" in the head, and ran. They wanted to kill a kid. Only was 15. So it goes.

GOD DAMMIT TOM YOU SO CLASSY.

So it was back to running until now. That time as an Agent... I look 23. I am 27. That's the way it is, I guess.

And why am I making this blog?

Because I was rooting around in my head, checking out the stuff I got as an Agent (which Slendershit forgot to take out, stupid dunce) one of which is a kind of... database? Either way, everyone who's stalked has a ranking, or "priority". The higher your "Priority", the more people that are going to hide in your bushes and wear bad home-made masks while they comically invade your privacy.

A few have skyrocketed.

Including mine.

Now I wonder who the hell did that?

So I'm pretty much just putting this thing up as a taunt. Run run run, as fast as you can, motherfuckers. Try and catch up and you'll get a fork in the eyesocket.

Now, all I need to do is try and figure out who these other people are, and why they're high priority like me.

If only it was more simple.

Aha. Guess I should've known by now.

Expect the unexpected;

--Tom