Let sleeping dogs lie. But if you insist on poking one with a stick be prepared for the dog to write about you on the internet

There are some parts of my past that I would rather forget forever. Nothing too horrible, I've never worked a street corner or anything. Just unpleasant memories that are better left swept under the rug with the rest of the dirt. So why is it that those are the things that always come to the surface like smelly sulfur bubbles? Can someone please answer this for me?

Like old boyfriends, for instance. Everyone has old boyfriends or girlfriends that they wonder what ever happened to. Those are the ones who, if they happen to contact you out of the blue after finding you on Facebook or something, you'd be happy to take a few moments out of your day to reminisce about the good old days with. Even, I might add, if the "good" old days weren't all that spectacular. Those hops and skips down memory lane are pleasant enough, if not a tiny bit disconcerting.

Then there's the other end of the spectrum - the just plain creepy type.

Guess which one emailed me out of the clear blue a couple of weeks ago. Go ahead, guess.

I dated this guy almost 20 years ago...

(20 years? I think I just choked on my tongue.)

... that for the sake of this post we'll call "Crazy Alex".

After I broke up with "Crazy Alex", an epically bad breakup where I feared for my safety more than a few times, I never saw him again and I have had zero desire to ever speak with him since. It was a relationship that never should have happened. The fact that it lasted the better part of two years is a testament to how stupid I was at seventeen - and even more stupid at eighteen because I was still with the guy. But in the spring of my eighteenth year I finally smartened up and dumped his sorry ass. Much to the delight of everyone who knew me, especially my parents. I'm surprised they didn't buy me a bedazzled flying unicorn that pooped puppies and jelly beans to reward me for finally getting rid of the guy.

Apparently he Googled me, which led him to my blog.

(Why yes, I am regretting posting my real name. Thanks for asking.)

And that, my friends, was a HUGE mistake on his part. Take note, lambs - if you had a bad relationship with someone a thousand years ago and you know they have a blog, do not, I repeat DO NOT, contact them or they will be forced to use your email as blog fodder.

We'll call it payback for every jealous rage he ever went on. Or making up for that time I was forced to throw a coffee mug (and stapler, and I think there may have been some dinnerware too) at his head and missed. And for the record I'm not proud of that. I have much better aim now.

Let's begin, shall we?

His words are in bold, mine are in snarky:

Well its taken me months to decide whether to write to you and say hi or just to leave it

(just leave it, just leave it, for the love of all that is good and holy, just leave it)

but here goes.
Hello

(Dammit all to hell. He never could take a hint.)

I found your blog one day, I will be honest I googled your name (*shaking fist at Google*) on a day that I heard a Cinderella song and you popped into my head, (that still happens on occasion).

(For the record, I have no idea what he means. I've never listened to Cinderella a day in my life. Really. And I never saw them in concert either. Um...)

I am so glad you have had a great life and are happy. congrats on the kids and I am sorry to read about your mom.

(Okay, it was nice of him to acknowledge my mom. Especially since she hated him with the power of 10,000 suns and she may have had a hit out on him.)

I have been married for 14 years now have two great step-kids...

(Right about here is when I started to zone out. I may have been humming "Nobody's Fool" but I can't be sure since I've never heard that song in my life.)

I guess I fall under the category of one of the "winner" boyfriends you had in your past that you wrote about, I definitely earned that title I was an ass.

(Bingo.)

sorry about that, I guess medication should have been prescribed earlier than 35. We have a...

(Something something, dog. Something, something. cat. Wonder what made him think I would care about his animals? Or his medication, for that matter?)

(Get out of my head. GET. OUT.)

I too stayed close to music I have been lead singer in a couple bands and worked as a bouncer at....

(Funny, I don't remember him being a singer. Or strong. I do remember him as being more than slightly crazy with delusions of grandeur, however.)

unfortunately lead singer syndrome led me into a felony charge that will never be clear for my record, but thankfully I have a very strong and understanding wife and family that stuck by me, another case of me being an ass...

This is where I was all, Wait just a second. Did he say "Felony Charge"? What does that even mean? Did he beat someone to death with a microphone? Oh my holy hell, who in their right mind emails an ex and casually mentions that? Hey, haven't talked with you in almost two decades. Did I mention I'm an ex-con? How are things with you?

*Head/desk. Repeat.*

I'm imagining him sitting down to write this and thinking Should I mention I spent some time in the big house? Eh, can't hurt. It's only amazing I didn't write back IMMEDIATELY and tell him all was forgiven and invite him over for Sunday dinner. Maybe make him my children's godfather.

There was more to the email after that, but honestly I think I blacked out.

You may think I'm being a little harsh, sharing this personal email on the internet, but I think he threw away any right to privacy when he contacted me out of the blue and mentioned he was a FELON.

Am I shouting? Sorry.

Since he's probably reading this, which is creeping me out more than just a little bit, I'm going to say this to him: A. - I'm glad you seem to be getting the help you should have gotten decades ago. I'm glad you seem to be in a stable relationship with a stable job. But what would make me very happy is if you were to forget my email address. Just pretend you never met me because I can't imagine you have any fond memories of that time. I know I don't.

Now I think I'm going to give my husband and hug and apologize for every time I screamed at him for not picking up his socks.