I knew you were crazy when we signed the lease—you with your sweatpants and torn T-shirt paired with your nasty-ass bare feet. I swear on all that is holy that our attic (that we are not allowed into) is filled with sex dolls and gag balls; shit, maybe it's where you keep your gimp. From the start, you had your crazy antics—I knew something wasn't right when you wrapped our yard in caution tape. But it wasn't until you started coming to our door at night—swearing, shaking, and sweating about a car in your not-labeled parking spot—that I told you to back off. Then there was the time you told my mother that I needed a "goddamn father" only to cower like a puppy when my "goddamn father" told you to back off. But I think the last straw was when you yelled at me from across the street at 7:30 in morning while I waited for the bus; no one has ever called me a "cunt, stupid little bitch," let alone a grown man renting me property. You are a total asshole and I hope that you become more egg-shaped, more miserable, and even crazier.