My guidance counselor once told me that my penchant for schoolyard gossip and rumors would be detrimental to my own personal development, but my curiosity for secrets of all kinds has led me directly to my career in international intelligence and surveillance.

“North Korea doesn’t just like nuclear weapons,” I once wrote in an 800-page report on the motivations behind the actions of the communist state. “North Korea likes likes them.”

In a footnote, I added, “They would totally snog.”

When my supervisor, a balding middle-aged man, learned about my history, he confided in me that he too shared the same habits in school. From then on, our correspondence took on a more casual turn. When I reported to him that terrorists were sacrificing themselves believing that 72 virgins awaited them in heaven, he remarked on the page, “OMG that’s so pervy!”

And when I showed him a photo of said terrorist, he exclaimed, “Ew, he’s like 40!”

Even I would say he took things a bit too far. For one thing, he was at least 55 himself. And there was something unsettling about the way he would hold his fists to his chin, hopping, whenever he got excited. See, my child-like expressions were subtle and classy. His were a 55-year-old man hopping with his fists to his chin.

After a couple weeks, I began distancing myself from him. He, however, did not make it easy for me. One day, he tried to give me a homemade bracelet. The next day, he tried to lend me his diary. I rejected both items, unable to see myself following down the same path as him. Finally, I told him we had to stop hanging out together. Enough was enough. The last straw came when he presented to me a poem in which the beginning letter of each line spelled out FRIENDSHIP.

It has been many years and I have not seen him since. I suppose I can admit that on some days, I miss the times we shared, the innocence of those moments. I no longer keep in touch with him, but from what my friends tell me, he’s in some punk rock phase now. I think he’s dating a black dude.