Being the part in which I deliver a laundry smackdown, and also in which I'm still not banging her.

So there I was, letter in hand, stunned by the idea that Fat Indian Bitch was playing with my underwear. On this particular morning, FIB was awake when I got home. I noticed that she seemed particularly attentive to me as I came in the house. I assumed that she was eagerly awaiting my response to this new letter.

I had no idea what to do about this. I sat on the bed to think for a few minutes. It then occurred to me that she might have stolen some of my clothes. The concept of FIB walking around with a pair of my underwear in her pocket absolutely sickened me. I sorted all the clothes in the laundry basket into piles and counted everything. The last time I did laundry I washed everything that was dirty, so there should be the same number of pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. I couldn't remember what I had worn or when I'd worn it, but the numbers all matched.

Hopefully this meant that FIB didn't pocket anything. All that remained then is what I would say to her. Not having a better idea, I settled for a simple admonishment. I opened my bedroom door to talk to her and she immediately sat up in anticipation.

"Hey. Don't touch my clothes again."

"I was just trying to be nice."

"I appreciate the gesture. But don't do it again."

"Umm… ok."

"I'm serious. Stay out of my stuff. Don't touch my clothes."

"Umm… ok."

I retreated to my bedroom. I slammed the door a little bit, just for effect. The effect was completely neutralized by the fact the door frame wasn't quite square. The door just bounced back and stayed open until I closed it again. I felt pretty foolish, but the message was received. She avoided me for the rest of the day and she didn't follow me to work that night. At least I don't think she did. It's very possible that she was still following but was a lot sneakier about it.

The next morning, wonderfully, there was no letter. That day and evening were blissfully normal. There wasn't even a hint of her typical obsessiveness. I was thrilled at the prospect of all the previous weirdness fading away. I went to work that night feeling better about my home life than I had in weeks.

The letters resumed the following day. This new letter, folded neatly and placed on my pillow as always, was a long-winded apology for the laundry incident. I read the letter, then crumpled it and threw it into the kitchen wastebasket. I always meant for her to see me throwing her letters away. After all, I had a trashcan in the bedroom too. Again she asked what I thought of her letter. This time I gave no answer at all, not even my typical non-committal mumble.

This was on a Thursday morning, and Thursday night was the end of my work week. When finished with work on a Friday morning, I'd typically go out for coffee or beers with a few coworkers and spend the rest of the day running errands and doing all the other things normal people do on a Friday afternoon. I'd stay awake until at least mid-afternoon, then sleep in until around midnight.

This Friday was different. I went straight home to bed. FIB wasn't awake when I got home, so I didn't see her until I woke at about 6 that evening. Within seconds of me opening my bedroom door, FIB was right there to find out what was different.

"Are you ok?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm just fine."

"Are you feeling alright? I've never seen you sleep on a Friday morning."

"Yeah, I feel just fine. It's just that I've got… plans for the evening."

FIB correctly assumed that "plans for the evening" was a gentle euphemism for "I've got a date." This new information left her quite… displeased.

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.