Yes people, I have arrived.
Nothing say's 'you've made it' quite like the acquisition of your very own stalker.
My only gripe is that I wish mine was a little more original and exciting in his m.o.
But no, I get stuck with the heavy breather. How lame is that? No bloody sheep hearts in the postbox, no gifts of fresh kills tied up with organza ribbon outside my bedroom window, no eerie photographs of me in mundane domesticity, no decoupage poems made up entirely of headlines from The Daily Sun, not even a creepy but heartfelt "I love you to violent death" email from a spammer address.
All I get is some asthmatic dweeb exhaling into the mouthpiece of his mobile.
But I've always wondered what it's like to be a Heavy Breather? Are they born that way; growing up and questioning, knowing that they were somehow different? Or is it society that shapes their proclivities; the influence of a distant father, an overbearing mother, or a more-favoured sibling?
And what about their actual antics? Surely, it's no easy task to find some suitable secluded spot in which to submit to what could be an inherent nature. What if someone stumbled upon their Breathing, what would they say? How would they judge? Would they even understand?
It's obviously not something they're able to share with friends, one can imagine the labelling, the ostracization, the eventual donning of the pariah mantle.
Poor, tragic, troubled.
Have you hugged a Heavy Breather today?