Being the part in which I'm still not banging her.

Fat Indian Bitch had just recently turned 18 when we found ourselves unexpected roommates. FIB could have been a poster child for raising the state's age of majority to somewhere around 25. Having her and Lazy-Eyed Nottie around the house was strangely reminiscent of 9th grade study hall.

At least half of their communication, both with each other and with Lazy Roomie and me, was in the form of notes. Sometimes they'd write their notes and fold them up, just like they're trying to hide them from a teacher. Other times they'd openly pass a notebook back and forth.

When these note passing incidents occurred, my emotions cycled between complete disinterest and open disgust. FIB would frequently try to get me involved in all of this note writing. She'd hand me something she'd written, I'd read it, hand it back to her, and speak my response. You'd think the fact that I never once wrote anything to her would be a sufficient hint that I just wasn't interested in writing notes. And that's where you'd be wrong. Not only did the junior high note passing continue, but things actually got worse.

She started writing me full blown letters. Nearly every morning I'd return home from work to find a neatly folded multi-page letter waiting on my pillow. At first these letters were pretty mundane. She'd chronicle the events of her day, especially anything I'd missed while I was working or sleeping. After a few letters, she started getting a little bolder.

She'd ask questions like "I haven't heard you talking about any girls. Does that mean you're single?" I never gave any response to questions like that. I didn't want to lie, and the truth is that I was single then. But I certainly didn't want to encourage her by telling her that.

So anyway, I'd get home, read my letter, then throw that letter into the trash. Normally FIB would wake up around this time, so she'd always ask me what I thought of her letter. I rarely gave any kind of real answer. Usually my response was something like a grunt and a shrug.

As annoying as FIB was, I really didn't want to hurt her feelings. She was only 18, and the constant stream of notes and letters made her seem even younger. Plus, the whole stalking thing had me convinced that she was at least a little unstable.

In retrospect, things would have gone a lot better for me if I had been brutally honest at the beginning.

One morning I came home to find my daily letter resting not on my pillow, but on my laundry basket. The basket was filled with neatly folded, freshly washed clothes. She'd taken my things to the laundromat in the middle of the night. After she watched me go to work, of course.

With more than a little trepidation, I read my daily letter. The entire letter was about my clothes, with several paragraphs devoted to my underwear. Did you catch that? While I was at work, Fat Indian Bitch was playing with my fucking underwear.