I'd never discuss this at my blog but I feel safer telling y'all here.

When I was younger I was stalked. It wasn't pleasant. At first it was in fact flattering, having a member of the opposite sex being interested in you. Despite the typical bravado, all men, well boys as it was, enjoy interest from any girl, even if they pretend otherwise. I was just entering my teenage years, realising the world involved far more than squashed flies and 8 hour cricket games in the backyard. Changing from an all-boys to a co-ed school brought me into contact with girls. A shy lad, it took me a while to warm up to these foreign creatures. But from an early start there was one who showed obvious interest in me. She'd always try and get me to chase her, or to get me to flick her bra, or she'd show an interest in whatever I was doing.

As time went by I finally clicked to what she was up to. Eventually an appropriate venue (the side passage-way of Michael's place on a Saturday night, I believe) saw a giggly exchange of intimacy. A little part of me died that night, knowing that I would never again experience something so naughty yet nice. Hazed and glamorised by nostalgia that grope was a first I fondly recall. However I didn't want a "relationship". God, I didn't even know what a relationship was. She persisted. She started writing love notes in class. This lead to the inevitable confiscation and humiliation as they were read out in class. She didn't care. She followed me. Badgered me to go out. "Accidently" turned up at parties I was at. Her school bag had my name on it, surrounded by a heart. There were plenty of other eligible boys but she seemed to only ever have eyes for me. She bought me presents every birthday, even though I purposefully ignored hers. She used to bring me snacks, home-baked cookies. She was smitten despite my trying every boy-trick in the book to shake her.

It got to the point I realised I would have to confront her about it. That was not a pleasant moment. I knew it would shatter her self-esteem. I knew that there were no words that would justify my lack of interest in her. For both us it would be a life-altering moment. She was (and is) funny, bright, pretty and popular. It was one of those things I dreaded and hated myself for but knew I had to do. I put a lot of thought into what to say and how to say it. Her face lit up when I asked to speak to her after school. I clearly remember the clear blue sky and thinking how ironic the weather could be. We walked to a nearby bench in silence, her mind no doubt turning over the possibilities of happiness and mine focussed on the soul-crushing blow I was about to deliver. We sat. I turned and looked into her deep brown eyes. As gently as I could, I said,

"F*ck off and leave me alone, Britney."

The poor girl. To this day I hope she's alright.