A True Story

I'm a Girl Scout. This often alarms those who know me well, considering I display little to none of the Girl Scout's code of hearty wholesome girly conduct, but it is, in fact, true. I used to sell cookies and everything. But that's beside the point – as a Girl Scout, I get to reap the benefits of doing my duty to the world with corn syrup-packed pastries. Which results in mall sleepovers, "Gather 'Round the Fire" Camping weekends, and some-and-such "wholesome" experiences. And since almost nothing in said experiences matters all that much, most of the time I don't reserve a special spot in my memory for their events.
…Which is why it came as a bit of a surprise to me when, almost a year after our previous Encampment, I began to receive about three messages a day from a mysterious sender, who claimed we'd met at the Camp-Out. I must have forgotten our conversation, because I didn't recall giving my email out to anyone. Let alone giving out my last name.
…Which is why it was even more startling when I started getting phone calls from her. She sounded about a year younger than me, and seemed to have a die-hard obsession with Twilight (to those who don't know me, that means "mindless, tasteless, hormone-driven goon").
"Hi, Emmy!" she would call cheerfully almost the exact instant I picked up the phone. She knew my name. Creepy.
"What school do you go to?" she would ask. And that wasn't all she asked.
"Where are you going for high school? What's your favorite kind of food? Do you like to go swimming? Where do you live?"
Though I answered the majority of her inquiry, I decided to leave the last question alone. But did it leave me alone in return? No. Every time I checked my inbox, I would find at least one email from her, pursuing my address. Oh, if it weren't for my little friend, the "delete" key, I might have been tempted to respond with a rejection the sights of which would conquer Rome, most likely involving several foul expletives.
Self restraint, self restraint, self restraint. Soon it became a mental mantra, to just control myself and ignore her messages. But wait. Oh, no. She'd found my deviantART.
This was the worst by far. Allow me to give you a brief explanation of the wonderous wonderful wonder that is "deviantART: where ART meets application!". To say the least, it's awesome. The only website that allows you to share visual art, literature, photography, poetry, etc. etc., and comment, share feedback, respond to said feedback, note one another – it's like a collision of Facebook and an art museum! And if you can appreciate that, you can probably understand why I was so horrified that she somehow found my deviantART account, and was messaging me, and commenting on my art, and favorite-ing my pieces, and probably writing creepy-stalker poetry about how much meaning my art work has and… Insert huge, exaggerated shudder here.
The next step was worse, though. Far worse. I probably should have predicted it, considering she had my last name. She'd looked me up on YellowPages before, to call me. I should have assumed she would do it again. But it was still freaky as all get-out when she showed up at my door one summer day.
"Do you want to go to the pool?" she asked, so hopefully I just couldn't say no.

And that's the true story of how my stalker became my best friend.