creepy (Photo credit: la tia rules)
English: The kitchen in a Stafford apartment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Every time I leave my apartment, I think about how long it will take the gang stalker(s) to enter my apartment.
And then I begin to think how disgusting it is to have some creep go through my apartment. The creep looking at my underwear, my food, touching the food. Looking at my life through his creepy self. I think of the creep entering my bedroom and looking through my clothes, deciding if he’s going to rip it that day, or doing something just as nasty. Perhaps taking my clothes with him to show and tell meetings. Or going into my kitchen and putting a roach on my food, or throwing out my water and filling it with disgusting tap water. Or perhaps going into my bathroom and taking my deodorant, toothpaste, or soap. It creeps me out that some sub-human is making himself at home in my apartment while I’m out doing something. Or perhaps he’ll decide to look through my magazines or old mail. And fold a page of the magazine over, so I’ll know he’s been in my apartment again.
This is what I think about when I go out. I imagine the creep sitting on my toilet and not flushing it, as he’s done before.
These are the kind of things I have to think about. About some creep wandering around in my apartment and making himself at home. And I think, there’s nothing I can do it. And he knows there’s nothing I can do about it. So he doesn’t worry about getting caught. Because he knows he’ll be notified when I’m coming home, so he can leave. The creep knows exactly where I am every minute.
He has plenty of time to destroy whatever he wants. He can remove the screws from my chair, so I’ll hurt myself. Or he can put fingerprint all over my kitchen table, or on my bedroom mirror. Or he can drill more holes in my floor. Or take some eggs, because he needs some, or just to make me think I’m losing it.
This is what I think of when I leave my apartment.
It makes me angry that he can just enter my home and do whatever the hell he wants in it.
It makes me sick.
I’d like to catch him some time, but I know I never will. He has too many others who work with him and will help him do whatever needs doing to destroy whatever I own. Or tear my self-esteem and feel good doing it.
It makes me sick that people like this exist in this world. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
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