Emotional Slapstick

So Skepchick was stalked by a Forever Alone (n. “a social misfit”). She- two-tone pink and orange hair, a radical’s mix of social and antisocial. Him- unknown name or hair-color, unknown raping ability.

She shamed him on video later, not for social deficiencies but an insufficient regard for her personal security.

Stef McGraw suggested a nicer spin, where the forever alone guy was a sweet fellow with a crush (and it could have been wonderful). Let's explore this fantasia...

I don’t think sex would have been on the cards: in my screenplay, they’re both very nervous about such things. Indeed they do have coffee: there is a strange intimacy as can only be rigged between two travellers sharing ideas. They decide to go for a walk: barefoot they clamber on the rocks of the seaside, breathing the cool emptiness of the city, the cold grey light of the morning upon the water.

Indeed, it was not like this, for he is just a fan: he does not yet realize that her blog has not held him with electronic arms. Defeated, he stumbles to his room, his rejection heavy about him as a sin, soon to be multiplied tenfold.

The times she’d been propositioned, like anyone, were few: this was a significant event- it had to be made sensible, or it would remain disturbing. After a little thought, the right thing to do became clear. She would be cool about it, not mention it ‘til halfway through the video, then just make note of the infractions made, and let everyone know that it’s not cool. Oh! She’d even been talking about sexualization of women earlier that evening! Boom! How perfect is that?

There, the world was righted again. What had threatened to become personal had been turned neatly political.

The definite misogynist, putative rapist will see it all unfold: his world crumbling down as blog after blog declares an opinion, all too few sympathetic, and Dickie Dawkins' surreal ravings far too unhip to be useful.

In the ashes he will find his lesson: to build his cachet, to be blasé around women, to only invest when sure of a return. It’s not romantic, but c’est la vie.