I have a stalker.
She reads my blog.
She used to be my friend.
But she only likes friends who tiptoe around her, so nothing they do or say upsets her.
If they do upset her, she expects them to grovel.
Expects them to beg forgiveness.
But I didn’t.
I would not grovel, would not comply.
She didn’t like this.
Not one little bit.
So she lied about me, and soured mutual friendships.
She wrote me an email once, telling me she read my blog because she wanted nothing more than for me to be miserable, and she liked it when I blogged that I was unhappy.
“I am not unhappy. I am quite happy indeed. And if I were as petty as you, I’d send you a SMS every day telling you I was happy. But you’re not worth the cost of the text messages.”
That’s the calibre of person she is.
So read it now, my dear, I am happy. If my epiphany of last spring didn’t make it clear enough, I’m telling you now.
Like everyone, some of my days are better than others.
But I’m not the twisted little creature with the dark heart you turned out to be.
You can keep reading.
But you’ll be disappointed.