Stalker Quotes

You're a stalker with hooves." "I am not! I followed her to the Big House and hid in a bush and watched the whole thing.

Lucky Charms are like the vampires of breakfast cereal. They're magical, they're delicious, they're a little bit dangerous and bad for you. They initially make you feel great, but then over time you realize that maybe your relationship with Lucky Charms is just a little bit unhealthy and you start to think, 'Maybe I don't want to be in a long-term relationship with a breakfast cereal that tastes delicious but damages my health.' But then the Lucky Charms gets all stalker on you and for some reason you kind of like that. It makes you feel special. So yeah, you spend your life with Lucky Charms. That's awesome. That's a great way to... get diabetes.

P.S. I also note that you included the Stalker's Anthem "Every Breath You Take" I do enjoy our sense of humor, but does Dr. Flynn know?

I have to tell you man, that my stalker meter is kind of registering in the red zone right now.

A coward talks to everyone but YOU.

Wouldn't have pegged you for a dancer," he spoke to my mind. "Funny, I would have pegged you for a stalker," I shot back.

Insanity is everyone expecting you not to fall apart when you find out everything you believed in was a lie.

Vee said," I'm trying to read the title he's holding…hang on…How to Be a Stalker." "He is not checking out a book with that title." But I wasn't so sure. "It's either that or How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying.

The film [Stalker] needs to be slower and duller at the start so that the viewers who walked into the wrong theatre have time to leave before the main action starts.

Because that was some mega tense awkwardness, a real 'Hello my name is Ever and I'll be your next stalker' kind of moment...

He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he’s not asked me where I live - yet he knows. But then he sent the books, of course he knows where I live. What able, cell-phone-tracking, helicopter owning, stalker wouldn’t.

No, I haven't heard that, but I'll keep it in mind. Thanks for the proverbial insight, my stalker friend.

I haven't mentioned her to Flynn, and I'm glad because I'm now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know".

What are you? (Nick) Completely perplexed. You remember everything that happened. (Acheron) Yeah. Duh. Not like you’re going to forget the killer zombie stalkers and psyched-out kitchen staff. What kind of freak show is this? (Nick)

Yeah, right, like Catherine Deneuve has her own hot-guy SWAT team trolling the neighborhood for celebrity stalkers with swords" - Kate (Die For Me)

Mr. Stalker Mr. Kinky Mr. Spellcaster Mr. Charming Mr. Personality Mr. Stalker Mr. Celebrity Mr. Beautiful Mr. Mercurial

Don't think of it as losing a boyfriend. Think of it as gaining a stalker." -Dan Cahill

Like a stalker. An obsessed stalker. An obsessed, vampire stalker

What did one say to a stalker? Um, pardon me, Mr.Stalker, but could you, like, not?

I sneaked out to his house a couple times in the middle of the night to watch over him while he slept, just in case, I don't know, his comic book collection decided to spontaneously combust. This was dumb and admittedly creepy in an Edward Cullen kind of way.

Every girl dreams about having her very own demon, but stalker is another story.

My boyfriend called me a stalker. Well, he’s not actually my boyfriend …

Let everything that's been planned come true. Let them believe. And let them have a laugh at their passions. Because what they call passion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world. And most important, let them believe in themselves. Let them be helpless like children, because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible. When he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it's tender and pliant. But when it's dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death's companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win.

Beware the darkness of dragons, Beware the stalker of dreams, Beware the talons of power and fire, Beware one who is not what she seems. Something is coming to shake the earth, Something is coming to scorch the ground. Jade Mountain will fall beneath thunder and ice Unless the lost city of night can be found.

Choosing a fantasy, that could easily become a reality, then using that fantasy to make the achievable sound fu%king impossible, isn't a real fantasy.

I start to wonder if I’m being creepy. I mean, I am creeping. Does creep-ing automatically make one creep-y? Or are there dispensations for…romance? I bet all stalkers believe they’re being romantic. I did it for love, officer.

Often people that say they “don’t care” actually do. The moment they discuss you with their friends and family, compete with you, bad mouth you to others or react to anything you do or say is when they give themselves away. You can either be saddened or flattered that you effected someone so much. The perspective is yours to determine.

Did you follow me here?" "Something like that." I let out a frustrated groan. "Can't anyone just talk to me straight? Why is everyone avoiding my damn questions tonight?" Bishop's brows went up. "Okay, fine. Yes, I followed you here. Better?" "Yes. Stalkery, but better." "I'm not stalking you." "Spoken like a true stalker

Words don’t have the power to hurt you, unless that person meant more to you than you are willing to confess.

When someone is stalking you because they think you are stalking them, it makes you wonder who really is the true stalker?

Stupidity is to have amnesia over your own faults when the person you hate makes theirs.

Remember this moment,” he growls deeply, withdrawing to the tip before pushing deeper inside of me. “Because the next time I fuck you, you will be deeply in love with me, Adeline. I’m your stalker and a murderer, and you will love me anyways.

Don't play his game. Play yours.

Never annoy an inspirational author or you will become the poison in her pen and the villian in every one of her books.

For a guy who claimed not to be a stalker he sure knows the tricks of the trade. Give up the Ghost

Holy shit, you’re the most accomplished stalker I’ve ever met.” “It’s not stalking if you like it.

If you have feelings for someone, let them know. It doesn’t matter if they can be in your life or not. Maybe, it is just enough for both of you to release the truth, so healing can occur. The opposite is true, as well. If you don’t have feelings for someone then never let another person suggest that you do. Protect your reputation and be responsible for the wrong information spread about you. Never allow anyone to live with a false belief or unfounded hope about you. An honorable person sets the record straight, so that person can move on with their life.

Surely my macking on some guy in an insane asylum wouldn't hurt him. He'd been living with his stalker, for heaven's sake.

From The Other Side, Uncle Roscoe was still exercising his Second Amendment rights. Protecting me from my stalker? Or was his gun going to get me killed?

Minds that have withered into psychosis are far more terrifying than any character of fiction.

So you’re a stalker?” I asked with a hard stare. He smirked, a knees-turning-to jelly kind of smirk. “I prefer gravitationally linked to your presence.

You’re going to fuck everything up if you act like some crazed guy with an infatuation. This is not the guy she fell in love with. She fell in love with dark mysterious Dank Walker. She fell in love with Death. Be that guy. Stop being this broken, pitiful, obsessed stalker dude.

I would be lying if I said I didn't get a kick out of the assignment. Here I am, a "troubled youth," and my self-chosen treatment is to become a stalker. Okay, not stalker. Research Analyst.

I wouldn't be in shallow relationships, so I do nothing. I have no sex and no romance. Who needs it.? Who needs all these potential problems like disease and pregnancy.? I have no problems. No fear of disease, psychopaths, or stalkers. Why not just be with your friends and have real conversations and a good time.?

I must do whatever I can to find the best partners possible." "Did you kick their butts?" He frowned. "The buttocks are among the least sensitive places to hit someone." I laughed. "It's a figure of speech." "To kick butts. Interesting.

Each time Stalker called you 'dove', I wanted to hit him. Because you're not a little gray bird... you're all the light in the world.

Feeling sexy and enjoying attention isn't a crime, yet it is a crime to stop someone from feeling sexy or good about themselves

I have a stalker, a beautiful one: the sunset. Every day she’s there, watching me, whether I watch her or not.

Are you stalking me, Mr. Fulton?" The idea both amused and horrified Jazz.

I'm just a stalker.

The moment you have to recruit people to put another person down, in order to convince someone of your value is the day you dishonor your children, your parents and your God. If someone doesn't see your worth the problem is them, not people outside your relationship.

At lunch I turned my phone on to check my messages. Georgia always sent me a few inane texts during the day, and sure enough there were two messages from her: one complaining about her physics teacher and a second, also obviously sent from her phone: I love you, baby. V. I wrote her back: I thought I told you to buzz off last night, you creep-o French stalker guy. Her response came back immediately: As if! Your beet-red cheeks this morning suggest otherwise ... liar! You're so into him. I groaned and was about to turn my phone off when I saw that there was a third text from UNKNOWN. Clicking on it, I read: Can I pick you up from school? Same place, same time? I texted back: How'd you get my number? Called myself from your phone while you were in the restaurant's bathroom last night. Warned you we were stalkers!

You're a stalker with hooves.

I have to tell you, man, that my stalker meter is kind of registering in the red zone right now.

How sad that I felt more of a connection to a fictional character than to a guy in real life.

I am being watched. My stalker is smart, just like I would be.

The two stalkers who had finally found one another. Watching each other all night until we collapsed from exhaustion.

You can't stalk what's yours", he returned. I looked at his shirt. "Yes, I suspect that's what all the stalkers say.

He loses his power when we know his face.

Don’t beat yourself up about being a nut job. Facebook’s made stalkers out of us all.

Death. It is a strange stalker, one that we spend our whole lives running from, some more successful than others.

Wow, that sounds total stalker." Or totally hot. God.

Often a woman that doesn’t have any business being in a fight is there because their ego thinks it can mend what other people can’t. It’s either superiority or a second chance to heal a wound they have, by meddling on your battlefield.

If she tried to leave without him he would burn her house down, plain and simple.

Fine, I'm a stalker, FINE.

You shouldn't have told them you were my fiance." "I thought if I were your fiance, they would let me see you immediately." "It just made you sound weird. Nobody my age gets married.

But I dog sit for those people. Once they notice he’s gone, they will ask me if I’ve seen him.” “So what?” “I pride myself in being an honest man. That’s what!

…sitting on the sidewalk outside of his workplace like some creepy stalker ex-girlfriend, waiting for him to come out so I can ambush him with love.

My boyfriend called me a stalker. Well, he’s not actually my boyfriend …” – STATUS UPDATE

If u don't like warriors then i don't like u so go away u stalkers... GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

The woman stared at the ruined body. Blood dripped from her arm. A fine spray of red covered her face --must've been cast off when she slammed down the cans. She wiped her face with her left forearm and kicked the stalker's corpse with her sneakered foot. "Don't mess with Texas.

Dear Child, Sometimes on your travel through hell, you meet people that think they are in heaven because of their cleverness and ability to get away with things. Travel past them because they don't understand who they have become and never will. These type of people feel justified in revenge and will never learn mercy or forgiveness because they live by comparison. They are the people that don't care about anyone, other than who is making them feel confident. They don’t understand that their deity is not rejoicing with them because of their actions, rather he is trying to free them from their insecurities, by softening their heart. They rather put out your light than find their own. They don't have the ability to see beyond the false sense of happiness they get from destroying others. You know what happiness is and it isn’t this. Don’t see their success as their deliverance. It is a mask of vindication which has no audience, other than their own kind. They have joined countless others that call themselves “survivors”. They believe that they are entitled to win because life didn’t go as planned for them. You are not like them. You were not meant to stay in hell and follow their belief system. You were bound for greatness. You were born to help them by leading. Rise up and be the light home. You were given the gift to see the truth. They will have an army of people that are like them and you are going to feel alone. However, your family in heaven stands beside you now. They are your strength and as countless as the stars. It is time to let go! Love, Your Guardian Angel

I'm not stalking her," I insisted. "I'm making sure she's safe. Besides, how could you stalk Lori McGillicuddy? She'd see you and come out to your truck and say, "Hi, I'm Lori. Are you my stalker? It's so neat to meet you! While you're stuck here watching my every move, can I bring you anything? Sweet tea?

His lashes, fluttered like butterfly wings. "I could've made you happy, dove." "You did," I whispered

It is not the monsters we should be afraid of; it is the people that don't recognize the same monsters inside of themself.

being bitten by a vampire is not sexy

I don't make threats," she said. "I make reality.

I admired Stalkers style. He was incredibly fast using two small blades strapped to the backs of his hands. Slash slash slash. Fighting him you wouldn’t die of one great wound but instead bleed out slowly surprised to find yourself weak and dying after a thousand cuts.

If I ever win you," he said, anger bright in his pale eyes, "it will be because you want me more. Not because he's gone. I'm nobody's second best.

I licked my lips where I could still taste their glove's fabric. Bitter leather and sweat. The taste of being alive.

I screamed at them all to leave me alone, begged for their mercy, but they feasted until I was picked clean like a carrion would.

You can't always expect people to apply your wisdom when they didn't use wisdom before they found themselves knee deep in their version of justice.

Show me a mortal who is not pursued, and I’ll show you a corpse. Every hunter is hunted, every mind that knows itself has stalkers. We drive and are driven. The unknown pursues the ignorant, the truth assails every scholar wise enough to know his ignorance, for that is the meaning of unknowable truths.

I tried to avoid it coming to that, but it was bound to happen...My attraction to you has tested my self-control and my concentration.

With the right combination of Long Island blue heavens swimming in my bloodstream, I could be perfection.

I'd leave all my haters in my motherfucking dust.

Wait a minute— who is Mrs. Alexander Banks eight thousand and twenty-one?" Uh-oh. He'd spotted the small icon at the top with my log-in name. I felt my face heat up. "It's just, uh, a name. Everyone has to log in under a made-up name." He turned to me, narrowing his eyes. "Is this your made-up name?

I hoofed it out of the alley, returned aboveground. Collided with people as I tore down the street, running fast as I could, chasing demons I would never catch.

If that was the last time we met, I was satisfied with my parting words. But if that was the case, why was I crying on the way back to the train as if I'd experienced a death?

What are you going to do? Are you going to live in the dark, locked in here? Afraid to look out, answer the door, leave? Yes, he's out there, and he's clearly not going to leave you alone until one of three things happens: he hurts you and gets arrested, or he makes a mistake and gets arrested, or you stop him.

I cried for all of those things that should have just been for us...

Sera tried again. “I’m thinking of fighting the next match topless. What do you think about that idea?” This time, he stopped—and turned his angry dragon eyes on her. “That would be unadvisable. You do not need to pick up any more stalkers.” She smirked at him. “I was just checking to see if you were listening to me.

Why don't you try it? It might be easier to run in these than your boots." "This shoe clearly is not my size, and there is no time to have more made." I tried not to laugh. "They have some in the back room that are your size.

I'd been writing for as long as I could remember, but once I read Otherworld, I'd stopped writing original stories to focus on fan fiction. It was such a rich, exciting world that I couldn't think of writing anything else.

Being dropped by your stalker is pretty bad. I mean he watches you week-in, week-out for almost a year, and then you have sex and he’s like ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. We no longer require your position as victim. Don’t call us; we’ll call you. It’s not you…it’s me. We’re just at different stages of our stalker/stalkee relationship. I need space.’ How pathetic are you? You’re actually ticked off that your stalker is no longer skulking around in the shadows. That’s just…pitiful.

If you were mine" Oh my what would I do to be his? He's the only man who has ever set the blood racing through my body. Yet he's so antagonizing too; he's difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me fourteen thousand dollar books, then tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He's not a dark knight at all but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor... a classic romantic hero.

She’d heard my theory on funnel cake and celery stalker men before. Most men were either like funnel cake: delicious and interesting, but who at the end of the day just aren’t good for the heart or complexion. Or they were celery: a sensible, healthy choice that didn’t really bring much to the table but an occasional crunch. If you OD on celery, you end up bingeing on cake behind closed doors. Funnel cake, while warm and delicious, is difficult to make. But you go there because you long for it like the double-twist stomach-dropping roller coaster as soon as you arrive at the amusement park. Wet ribbons of batter crackle and pop until golden and crisp, yielding in the center. The steamy swirls of tender yellow dough absorb confectioners’ sugar like pores. When the luxurious fat melts on your tongue, you exhale. You’ve got sticky batter, dribbling down spouts, leaving rings on your clean countertops, splattering oil growing darker and beginning to smoke. Layers of paper towels and oil-draining weapons clutter your space. With funnel cake, you’ve got steps to follow. Procedures. Rules. No one makes rules about celery. It’s always around for the snacking. You choose it when you’re dieting or trying not to consume too many wings over football. Come to think of it, you don’t even bother eating it when you diet. Instead it’s a conduit for blue cheese. You use it to make stocks and stuffing. It becomes filler, pantry almost.

Speaking of names and all-time favorite romances, Bailey told me you write under a pen name. I've been really curious about that." Fern groaned loudly. She shook her fist toward Bailey's house. "Curse your big mouth, Bailey Sheen" She looked at Ambrose with trepidation. "You are going to think I'm some stalker chick. That I'm totally obsessed. But you have to remember that I came up with this alter ego when I was sixteen and I was a bit obsessed. Okay, I'm still a bit obsessed." "With what?" Ambrose was confused. "With you," Fern's response was muffled as she buried her forehead in his chest, but Ambrose still heard her. He laughed and forced her chin up so he could see her face. "I still don't understand what that has to do with your pen name." Fern sighed. "It's Amber Rose." "Ambrose?" "Amber Rose," Fern corrected. "Amber Rose?" Ambrose sputtered. "Yes," Fern said in a very, very small voice. And Ambrose laughed for a very, very long time.

Closure /klōZHər/ Noun 1. The thing women tell you what they want, but secretly they really want you to tell them why you don’t want them again, so they can try one last time to convince you that you were wrong. 2. The warped mentality that having someone tell you honestly why they don’t want you is going to somehow make you feel peace, so you can move on. 3. The neat packaging of finishing conversations because you have been stewing over it insecurely about the length of what a stalker does. 4. The one thing women don’t give themselves because if they didn’t care about the jerk they wouldn’t still be hanging onto another conversation that tells them what they already know: He just isn’t that interested in you. 5. The anal retentive art of perfecting every ending with meaning, rather than just excepting you went through something rather sucky and he doesn’t care. 6. The act of closing something with someone, when in reality you should slam the door.

It's a physical sickness. Etienne. How much I love him. I love Etienne. I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing. I love listening to his boots clomp across my bedroom ceiling. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent. I love that. I love sitting beside him in physics. Brushing against him during lands. His messy handwriting on our worksheets. I love handing him his backpack when class is over,because then my fingers smell like him for the next ten minutes. And when Amanda says something lame, and he seeks me out to exchange an eye roll-I love that,too. I love his boyish laugh and his wrinkled shirts and his ridiculous knitted hat. I love his large brown eyes,and the way he bites his nails,and I love his hair so much I could die. There's only one thing I don't love about him. Her. If I didn't like Ellie before,it's nothing compared to how I feel now. It doesn't matter that I can count how many times we've met on one hand. It's that first image, that's what I can't shake. Under the streeplamp. Her fingers in his hair. Anytime I'm alone, my mind wanders back to that night. I take it further. She touches his chest. I take it further.His bedroom.He slips off her dress,their lips lock, their bodies press,and-oh my God-my temperature rises,and my stomach is sick. I fantasize about their breakup. How he could hurt her,and she could hurt him,and of all the ways I could hurt her back. I want to grab her Parisian-styled hair and yank it so hard it rips from her skull. I want to sink my claws into her eyeballs and scrape. It turns out I am not a nice person. Etienne and I rarely discussed her before, but she's completely taboo now. Which tortures me, because since we've gotten back from winter break, they seem to be having problems again. Like an obsessed stalker,I tally the evenings he spend with me versus the evening he spends with her. I'm winning.