A Cease-Desist Request to My Internet Stalker

To whom it may concern (and trust me, you know who you are),

(Hint: Your name is the same as the 1997 animated film about the last surviving daughter of the last Russian monarch and it is NOT a Disney movie.)

I get it. You had or still have a crush on me in high school. That, by itself, is nothing condemnable. It happens. Everybody has crushes. I'm flattered you or anyone would want to hop on this pop. Really, I don't get that often. What I don't get, however, is how long you've clung to this crush.

I'm twenty four years old, nearly twenty five. The last time we attended school together, I was eighteen. Seven years with basically zero communication is far too long to try to rekindle our already nonexistent relationship.

Because this is an open letter (and in the odd chance you have forgotten or skewed our only encounters), I will describe our only interactions.

Throughout my first three years of high school, I had no idea you even existed. This might sound harsh, but during those three years I was only acquaintances with people in my own grade. You have always, remember, been a grade above me.

The first time I ever remember talking to you in all those years was after the orchestra Secret Santa exchange in junior year. The way the orchestra handled this was pretty simple: you fill out a small worksheet that asks for your favorite candy, celebrity crush, animal, Ninja Turtle (did I mention I wrote this thing?), etc. There was also a specific $20 limit.

In every previous Secret Santa, that $20 limit was always observed. Usually people barely spent $5. For instance, one person gave my brother a small toilet as a play on our last name (Littlejohn). When I got my gift that year, it was overwhelming. Every item on that sheet was covered in one form or another, and it even had James Lipton's interview with Salma Hayek (what can I say? I had just watched "Desperado" for the first time). As I went through everything, you walked up to me, asked if I liked it, and then told me you were my secret Santa. Okay, cool, you go above and beyond. No reason for me to complain. Then the orchestra president came over and commented about how awesome my gift was. I said "Yeah, [she] got literally everything I wrote."

Then the president told me that she didn't assign you as my secret Santa.

This was unnerving, but not unnerving enough for me to throw out those Twizzlers. I cannot ever remember us speaking to any great length, and I have a pretty good memory for these things.

Every subsequent interaction has been online, and your behavior hasn't gotten any less creepy. I have to give you one thing, you're consistent.

Ever since that day, whenever I did anything on the internet, on any site, you were always the first person to find me. I signed up for Facebook, you were there. Xanga, you. Blogspot, you. Skype, you already had an outstanding request. It's come to a point where the first thing I do whenever I sign up for anything with a block feature is find you (because I can always find you) and block you. This is unfair and mean. I know, and I'm sorry. I wish I didn't have to treat you like this, but you really give me no choice.

The last time we spoke, I almost screamed in terror. Out of nostalgic boredom, I found and fired up an old AIM screen name that I made and used once to pester my friend's sister. Only three people knew about that screen name, and two had forgotten about it. Within a few minutes of logging in, you messaged me with a simple "hi" [sic].

I have to ask: how the flying monkey hell did you find that screen name? It was meant to be secret. I hadn't used it in years. Have you found me on every site and service you can imagine and wait for me to log on? The only explanation I can come up with is that you have every screen name I've ever made saved on AIM and you just sit and wait for me to log on.

Once again, I am flattered you think so highly of me, but you really need to move on. I'm off doing my own thing and the last time I checked you're a licensed massage therapist. All I can take from our relationship is that I can never get a massage in my hometown or I'll risk being locked in a cabin after you break my legs with a sledgehammer.

And I like my legs.