The Obligatory First Post

When someone likes me, it seems, they don’t merely crush from afar. They don’t ask me on a date or talk to me about my interests. 

They stalk.

I grew up a sheltered child.  I went to a private Christian school with the same 12 kids throughout my entire elementary school career.  During this time, the clouded veil of childhood innocence was thickly draped over my eyes.  I knew perhaps two swear words, and the notion that boys were icky was solidified in my brain; they were only good for telling bathroom jokes and being on your team in Keep Away.  In fact, I remember a day in 6^th grade when we found a love note written by two 7^th graders.  We mercilessly mocked their foolish ways.

I was young, I was happy.  I thought the world was comprised of lollipops, sprinkles, and quality cartoons.

By the time I reached junior high age, my parents and I decided it was time to assimilate me into Public School Culture, and slowly the veil was pulled back from in front of my eyes.

I was an awkward, bumbling, prepubescent wreck.  My smallish body was riddled with baby fat, my teeth were braced to the extent that they could survive a nuclear holocaust, and my inability to dress myself was laughably abhorrent.  Yet still, they came.

Like zit-covered, scruffy-haired flies to a carcass, their appeal stemming from something strange and disgusting, they gathered.  They, with their limited knowledge on how to properly use a stick of deodorant. They, with little tufts of hair growing beneath their nostrils. They, with gangly limbs and slurred speech.

Boys.

I spoke to a grand total of two boys in elementary school, and this was not even on a daily basis.  They were like foreign creatures to me. When they spoke, it was a language I didn’t understand, and therefore my mouth was unable to utter a reply.  When they joked, I forced a chuckle because I never really got it.  And when they liked me. . .oh, my.  I didn’t know how to handle myself.  Particularly if I didn’t like them back.

And this, as life and the universe would have it, has always been the case.

When someone likes me, it seems, they don’t merely crush from afar. They don’t ask me on a date or talk to me about my interests. 

They stalk.

 Sometimes with ninja-like stealth, others with the conspicuousness of an elephant stomping on kindergarteners in the middle of a busy intersection, they’re there. At every corner, at every turn.  In nearly every new social situation, I acquire another.  Throughout my lifetime, which in this case means 7^th grade to right now, I have garnered quite a colorful collection of admirers, most of which being  a tad bit on the creepy side. 

This blog will be a compilation of the tales of good times passed.  Of love notes and crazy old men and bad pick-up lines.  Of frustrations and horrors and incredulity.  These are my stories.

Memoirs of a Stalkee.