🚩 Red Flag Friday: “The Thighs Have Eyes” — Nightmare on Match Street

It began the way all great horror movies begin:
in the dark, just before dawn, when the world is quiet, your guard is down, and nothing good ever comes from checking your phone.

4:51 a.m.

My phone glowed on the nightstand — soft, eerie, and absolutely up to no good.
You know the scene: the quick cut, the ominous music shift, and the audience whispering,

“Don’t… pick… it… up.”

But I did.
Because I am the Surviving Heroine in this psychological thriller, and also because I regularly make bad decisions before caffeine.

I cracked open one eye.
Then the other.
I reached.

And with the naïve innocence of the victim in the first 10 minutes of a slasher film… I unlocked the screen.

Retro comic image of woman squinting at glowing phone screen — *This is why do not disturb was invented.*

There he was.

Andre.
From Illinois.
Awake at 3:51 a.m. HIS time.
Which already raises the eyebrow of suspicion.

His opener?

“Good morning 😃 You’re pretty!”

I should’ve closed my eyes and gone back to sleep.
I should’ve thrown the whole phone out the window.

But no.
Curiosity won — as it always does — and the typing bubbles began.

Fast.
Aggressive.
Like a chatbot on steroids.

🩰 Scene 1: Ballet, Cheerleading… or Cult Initiation?

The questions came rapid-fire:

“Did I wake you?”
“You work out?”
“What competitive sports were you in?”
“Ever did ballet?”
“Cheerleading?”

Dude.
It is before 5 a.m.
I haven’t even remembered my own name yet.

This was no small talk.
This was an athletic inquisition.

Vintage comic panel of a bald man at a laptop in a dimly lit room, with pom-poms hanging ominously in the background. — *Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer …*

This image is EXACTLY how it felt:
Andre, hunched over a keyboard in a dim lair, illuminated only by the unholy glow of his laptop and a deep desire to measure my quads.

🍗 Scene 2: “Nice curves!” — and the Descent Into Madness (Muah, ha, ha)

As I scrolled his profile — trying to confirm whether he was:

human,
Martian, or
texting from an abandoned Gold’s Gym

— my phone buzzed again.

“Nice curves!”

In our movie, that was the whisper before the jump scare.

And then came the final blow…

🔥 Scene 3: The Line That Summoned The Cyber Police

Just as my thumb hovered over BLOCK, he fired off the message that cemented his place in Red Flag Friday history:

“Your thighs pretty strong?”

Wait … WHAT.

It’s before sunrise.
The house? Dark.
The dogs? Asleep.
My patience? Gone.

You can’t ask about thighs at this hour. Or any hour. Ever.
It violates at least three federal laws and one sacred truth:

✨ No thighs before sunrise. ✨

No.
No, no, no.

Period.

Vintage comic panel of a sad ThighMaster exercise tool cartoonishly crying under a spotlight — *Even the ThighMaster — abandoned since 1993 — knows this is a violation.*

❌ Scene 4: The Final Girl Moment

It happened in slow motion.
The music swelled.
I hit BLOCK so hard my phone considered filing a complaint.

Vintage comic-style illustration of a silver-haired woman dramatically pressing the block button on her phone. — *Can I block someone more than once???*

Andre vanished.
Banished.
Slithered back to whatever early-morning Thigh Dimension he crawled out of.

🎬 FINAL SCENE — PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

And now, friends, a crucial PSA:

If a man asks about your thighs before sunrise…
That is not romance.
That is not flirtation.
That is not curiosity.

That is:

🚨 A Thigh-Based Emergency 🚨

Report immediately.
Block swiftly.
And repeat after me:

No thighs before sunrise.

The Bold Before The BLOCK

Tune in next week for another installment of:

🚩 Red Flag Friday: “The Thighs Have Eyes” — Nightmare on Match Street

🩰 Scene 1: Ballet, Cheerleading… or Cult Initiation?