I’ve secretly stalked you for over a year now. I’ve befriended you via one of the largest, vilest social networking sites. I’ve commented on your posts—not because I wanted you to take notice of me, but because I was genuinely interested in what you had to say. I’ve checked out your friends, your enemies, and your detractors. I’ve even Googled your name and found out your school activities. Creepy, I know, but I wanted to know about you. I’ve noticed similarities between us. Given that I’m a colossal fuck-up, I don’t yet know if this is good or bad. I have to remind myself that you are not me, that you will not necessarily make the same mistakes I have, or have the same regrets, but, still, I can’t help but worry.
I respond to you always with the buried hope that you will, eventually, notice that there’s something off with the faux-me, and wonder, just who is this person whose photo I’ve never seen, lives in a different state, and talks like a middle-aged female? What am I to him? How does he know me, anyway? Have you ever wondered? I know little enough about you to say. Perhaps I’ve put too much into this—this sham persona, this approximation of familiarity.
You see where I’m going with this, yes? Clearly, this situation is not going to resolve itself. I guess I’ll just have to do what everyone else does—I’ll have to send you a letter.