It started out innocently enough; when I visited CollegeHumor, you'd always smile at me. I'd blush and smile back. I'd read the latest funny t-shirt you were sporting and think, "Wow, what a hip lady!" It was fun for a while, I admit.

But then it escalated. I'd see you everywhere; on the main page, where the featured writers were listed, even on the R-rated stuff. I started seeing your red hair, freckles, and perfectly white teeth in my sleep. My dreams are a place for a pleasant release from my daily troubles, not so you can flash your amazing dimples at me. But I knew it had gone to far when you showed up on one of my own updates. That's just creepy.

I told you I had a girlfriend, but I guess that doesn't matter, huh? You kept smiling and sticking your wonderfully supple breasts out, trying to entice me to know God-knows-what. I'm flattered, really, but I'm not interested.

How ironic that your shirt reads "Never Forget." I'll never forget when the stalking took on a whole new level of creepiness. I should have known better when I got your request on Facebook. I thought maybe we could be friends. Maybe we'd share a love of Abba or model airplanes. But then the messages started. "Will you go out with me?" "Wonder what's underneath these hilarious t-shirts?" "Can I collect your toenails in a jar?" Just plain weird, Busted Tees girl. Plus, listing "The Notebook" as one of your favorite movies is a sure way to drive guys like me away.

Then, of course, came the endless pokings. After a while I just stopped even visiting facebook anymore. If I wanted to get poked 15 times a day, I'd go visit my crazy great aunt Martha.

I thought removing you as a friend would clue you in, but then I saw this t-shirt advertised on the main page of collegehumor. It's too much! I mean, honestly, who is going to buy this shirt other than you and the countless other gorgeous girls who I make wet on a daily basis? Busted Tees is a place for witty t-shirts to appeal to the masses, not for you to publicly profess your love for me. Shame on you, Busted Tees girl. Shame on you.

The final straw was the package I got in the mail the other day. Was I not supposed to realize that the red, soft, sweet-smelling lock of hair in that box was from you? Was I supposed to be encouraged? I'm not sure what you were going for, but if it was creeping me out and giving me something to sleep next to and cuddle with at night, you succeeded.

Please, please stop this silly bout of puppy love. I'm sure someone will love you eventually. It just won't be me.