My mom allowed me to take an old burlap bag and fill it with moss, corn stalks and rocks, then hang it from a tree and spend an hour a day punching my heavy bag.

As soon as I go out into the world, I belong, in a way, to everyone else. It's legal to follow me. It's legal to stalk me at the beach. And I can't call the police or ask them to leave.

If an ordinary person parks outside another ordinary person's house for a week, it's considered stalking. If, however, that person is considered newsworthy, it's perfectly legal for paparazzi to do the same thing.

Gun owners and non-gun owners alike agree on expanding background checks, making gun trafficking a serious crime with stiff penalties, making it illegal for all stalkers and all domestic abusers to buy guns, and expanding mental health resources so the mentally ill find it easier to receive treatment than to buy firearms.

Stalking is a crime that can paralyze an otherwise productive person with fear.

We know the road to freedom has always been stalked by death.

No matter how devastating our struggles, disappointments, and troubles are, they are only temporary. No matter what happens to you, no matter the depth of tragedy or pain you face, no matter how death stalks you and your loved ones, the Resurrection promises you a future of immeasurable good.

I follow all these fashion blogs that are cool and inspire me. I'm not really obsessed with anyone except for the people that I like romantically. I get excited when they post. Sometimes I like to stalk my exes.

Lesson one, for anyone interested: stalking never was, is, or will be romantic. Ever.

People who have social media accounts and don't update or say anything on them. They don't like or comment. 98% of those people have more than one accounts, where they use fake or parody profile picture and fake names. They are the ones who use ghosts accounts. Where they scam, bully, stalk, harass, threaten, abuse, speak bad, damage other people lives. Where they are vocal , mean and trolling others.

"You can't be treating people bad, speaking bad about them , creating fake accounts to insults, swear, stalk, fight and bully them and then you preach karma everyday , when someone does you wrong.Do to others as you would have them do to you.

Misery is the currency trade on social media. That is why sociopath and stalkers have found a place to call home. Clout chasers are upgrading from cat fishing to sadfishing.

You don't really need much to be happy. A nice window, a Netflix connection, a few good books, and a loaded pantry mostly does the trick. A couple of genuine friends, a well-bruised passport, a few Instagram stalkers, and an imaginary pet couldn't hurt either.

I stalk certain words... I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives... I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them... I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves... Everything exists in the word.

"CHORONZON: I am a dire wolf, prey-stalking, lethal prowler.

Fundamentalists offer us a "loving" God who is some kind of divine stalker.

Perhaps swimming was dancing under the water, he thought. To swim under lily pads seeing their green slender stalks wavering as you passed, to swim under upraised logs past schools of sunfish and bluegills, to swim through reed beds past wriggling water snakes and miniature turtles, to swim in small lakes, big lakes, Lake Michigan, to swim in small farm ponds, creeks, rivers, giant rivers where one was swept along easefully by the current, to swim naked alone at night when you were nineteen and so alone you felt like you were choking every waking moment, having left home for reasons more hormonal than rational; reasons having to do with the abstraction of the future and one's questionable place in the world of the future, an absurdity not the less harsh for being so widespread.

The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn't even check for traffic. There wasn't any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker.

She wasn't the only one to be physically morphed by reader expectation. Miss Havisham was now elderly whether she liked it or not, and Sherlock Holmes wore a deerstalker and smoked a ridiculously large pipe. The problem wasn't just confined to the classics. Harry Potter was seriously pissed off that he'd have to spend the rest of life looking like Daniel Radcliffe.

I think the very word stalking implies that you're not supposed to like it. Otherwise, it would be called 'fluffy harmless observation time'.

The more you talk about it, rehash it, rethink it, cross analyze it, debate it, respond to it, get paranoid about it, compete with it, complain about it, immortalize it, cry over it, kick it, defame it, stalk it, gossip about it, pray over it, put it down or dissect its motives it continues to rot in your brain. It is dead. It is over. It is gone. It is done. It is time to bury it because it is smelling up your life and no one wants to be near your rotted corpse of memories and decaying attitude. Be the funeral director of your life and bury that thing!

And then Jack chopped down what was the world's last beanstalk, adding murder and ecological terrorism to the theft, enticement, and trespass charges already mentioned, and all the giant's children didn't have a daddy anymore. But he got away with it and lived happily ever after, without so much as a guilty twinge about what he had done...which proves that you can be excused for just about anything if you are a hero, because no one asks inconvenient questions.

There's a fine line between support and stalking and let's all stay on the right side of that.

You're a stalker with hooves.