Around that time, my mom also started reading my actual mail.
I'd find opened envolopes on the kitchen table that were adressed to me.
Jack apologized and sent all the shots to me -- shots in which my face (and a token poster) were clearly visible.
In the 3 years I've had my email, I never had to deal with anything like that.
Parents, don't spy on your kids without good reason, everyone deserves privacy, and if you break your kid's trust, they might start going behind your back, like I did.
They were okay with that, but they don't know I use that account to email people, so they don't moniter it.
When I asked my mom why she still feels the need to moniter my email, she said it was so she could make sure I wasn't being sent anything inappropreate. I get the online safety talk every year at school for the past 9 years, and I know to delete an email if it has anything inappropriate.
I mean, that's like a virtual hickey," began *Stephanie, the most logical of my college friends. Jack moved away less than a week later, and as he stood by the moving van, he said words I'll never forget: "You mean a lot to me. But then, a voice inside me said: "You broke his heart. That will make him feel better." I donned my sexiest lingerie (read: my most expensive Frederick's of Hollywood purchase) and lounged seductively in front of my mirror. Immediately, my body shivered with a thrill entirely new. I dragged my fingernails upwards on my thigh, biting my lip, while reading Jack's response. When out with friends, I made flimsy excuses so I could leave and get my fix.