Dearest landlord,
As you said, and as is typical, it is customary for a renter to give his landlord 30 days notice before moving out. In this same vein, it is customary for a landlord to give at least 24 hours notice before subjecting the tenant’s apartment to a “routine checkup.” I’ve never received notice before any of your “routine checkups.” Additionally, in order for you to have checked up on the apartment, you had to first scan the driveway for my car, knock to see if I was in and then let yourself in if it turned out I wasn’t. As it was, all of the aforementioned criteria were met, and early this morning you let yourself into my apartment for a “routine checkup.” What you found, undoubtedly, were many packed boxes, scattered laundry, cleaning supplies, garbage bags, and a trail of leaving all throughout the place. This, as you might’ve guessed, was not rightfully yours to see. It could very well have been my very personal belongings thought to be safely guarded in my own personal space. As you’ve proven, this space is anything but. And is it also turns out, these were my personal items. But you weren’t so wrong in asserting that I’m moving out. I might, however, deem it more of an escape.
I should’ve been alarmed when we first met. When, though kindly, but with a touch of creepiness, you, a 60 year-old gay man, told me I was the cutest person who’d come to see the apartment. I was flattered as much as an open-minded straight man ought to be flattered. I took it, one might say, with a bit of pride and mocked it up to your gentle outgoing persona. I should’ve been further alarmed when you told me I was welcome to use the hot tub with you if I so pleased, and nude, we should fairly mention. But I was naïve and took it as an extension of compassion, the outstretched arm of a gracious older man. What I failed to notice is that this was anything but an outstretched arm. This offer was merely a figurative penis in my figurative mind, figuratively raping my all too accepting disposition. When, two or three times, I accidentally stumbled upon your naked hot tub gatherings, I was less alarmed than I ought to have been. More than once it was with other naked men. You also offered me, instead of the mother-in-law apartment above the garage, to move into a room directly inside your home.
I wish I’d taken the advice of my dearest friends closer to heart. The dearest of the dearest told me one evening, “He wants your body.” I laughed it off, though accepting that it contained a considerable amount of truth. She’s told me this many times. I’ve laughed it off many times. I’m not laughing anymore. My figurative anus is gaping from many a nights’ torturous rape à grâce de votre figurative penis. And it’s not-so-figuratively ethical. I recall when I would encounter you in the middle of your nude baths, “Hey, boy,” you’d say to me. Looking back, that’s fucking creepy. I suppose what I’m getting at is why haven’t you ever just properly asked me to bed with you? I would, respectfully, decline. But even so, you would move from creeper status to the much more respectable “acknowledged pervert.” Instead, you remain somewhere between; the advantageous homosexual with figurative raping tendencies. And you told me once that you used to be a counselor. You have a degree in psychology, in fact. What. The. Fuck’s. Up. With. That?
When I first came to view the apartment, you showed me the master suite in your “dream home,” the home which has a room for massage therapy, which you showed me too. In retrospect, I find it flamboyantly creepy that you showed it to me, and further creepy that you proclaimed your massage techniques above those of other mortal men. In this master suite you showed me, lied a bottle of lube in a rather phallically shaped bottle. I have often wondered since if this had been strategically placed; if you were silently asking me to a feisty bout of gay sex. I looked at it, looked away. Made mention of it to my dearest of dear friends, to which they responded, “No way. Daniel, he wants you. Watch your back.” I laughed it off. But…I’m not laughing anymore. Nothing’s funny. My asshole’s aching. I’ve had too much. You also have a shop in the basement with many power tools; a basement where you devise many machines for horrible uses. Your house’s worth is practically invaluable. It’s a recently built craftsman home. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands of dollars line the insides of its walls. And you bake, you told me once. “So be not surprised, boy,” you said, “if you find fresh brownies upon your doorstep.” “I shant,” I replied warmly. And they did appear. But then a couple of days later, from within the fridge of my locked apartment, appeared a nicely packaged homemade container of barbecued meatballs. My personal space had been for the first time, but certainly not the last, violated by your balls. Then it was lasagna. And finally more cookies. Then you offered me clothes. And when I would come upon you doing the laundry in our shared space, or collide with you inevitably in the hall, you’d swipe your hand down my back and act as if it was a gesture of fatherly kindness. But fathers ought not have erections during such gestures, nor eyes that unbutton shirts and pants.
No, I may not give you 30 days notice, but please do understand why I have not. In this letter you’ll find, I’m sure, many valid reasons why I’ve felt violated and scandalized many times in your presence. And maybe I’ve completely misinterpreted your demeanor. Perhaps your disposition is one uncontrollably covered in false perversion. I cannot discern with absolute certainty your intent. I can, however, realize when for the benefit of my own health, I must escape a situation in which I feel uncomfortably exposed. I should not, I think, feel that I’m naked before your eyes when in reality I’m dressed in many layers of clothes bound tightly by a tie around my neck and a belt about my waist. So please do understand why I didn’t give notice, and why you may never hear from me again. Also, it would be good for you to learn from this, if possible, that humans prefer to be treated as such. An innocent person should not, in my opinion, feel imprisoned in an uncharacteristically perverted house controlled by alarm systems and micromanaged methods by which you may determine my exact location at any time of the day. My discomfort is clear, I need not persist; your position is not so clear, and in this lies the evident chaos of our current debate. I hope, sincerely, that you find someone who can live within the confines of your densely polluted world.
Sincerely,
Your Violated Tenant in the Room Above the Garage in the House Surrounded With Perversion. (Who’s Leaving Pronto.)
At the counter was a woman. “What do I do now?” I asked her. As if the question was one she receives often, she replied without hesitation. “You find any and all of your space travel supply needs.” “What if I don’t have space travel supply needs?” “Well…we’re actually a front for a non-profit youth writing and tutoring center.” It all began to make sense. The atomic teleporter at the back of the store wasn’t actually a teleporter, it was an elaborately designed door that led to a classroom where tutoring sessions were held. All of these products weren’t really for space travel, they fund an organization with more valiant of a cause than NASA could ever hold claim to. Pam looked at me with the eyes of knowing. Her gaze said, “Danl, you need to volunteer for this shit immediately.” It’s the culmination of recent revelations. Of my need to help others, of my need for purpose, of my need to write, of my need to impart encouragement and support to a group so troubled by the aspects of growing up. 
close to my toes and threatened to burn my dermis. I was unaware I had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if thunder from the clouds, I heard the jolting voice of the Skin Magician.
I dashed up the stairs in a frantic run, found the pad at the top and, finally, pushed the correct combination, but all too late. As my finger came to rest upon the final number in the combination (my gloves now removed) the alarm alerted me that I was too-fucking-late. A scream not unlike a police siren erupted throughout the prison. 
