Of the Creeper at the Doorway


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My roomie and I were talking about life, love, success, food, old friends, sweat pants, basically anything and everything, when we heard a pounding at our door.

First – it was about midnight.

Second – we rarely get visitors without pre-planning.

We live in one of those apartment complex’s where there’s no lobby or indoor hallway. We’re set up like a motel surrounded by trees. Basically, our building really wanted to become an edgy cabin but failed in its execution. Our apartment is on the top-level in the corner where our door and the neighbors form a perfect 90 degree angle. Now, since they get more visitors than us, we normally assume that the banging is on their door. Tonight the knocking was for us …

I went up to the door first and peered through the peep-hole. I saw a stout man about my height, wearing a seashell choker necklace (very 90s of him), and knocking on the door in a fist-pumping-Jersey-Shore-fashion. He then began to repeat the phrase, “Open up” several times. Quickly, I motioned for my roomie. She hesitantly made her way towards the peep-hole.


This is the closest image I could find (Click image to view source)

You see, my roomie has an unusual fear of leaning up against doors, windows, and things of a similar nature in high pressure situations. When she was a kid she watched Scream (the original). The bathroom scene, where the girl leans up against the stall to try to hear what’s going on only to end up with a knife in her head, has left a residual worry in my roomie’s heart that she too could end up with a knife in the head. Anyways, she didn’t recognize him either.

Then he left.

About 5 minutes later he came back doing the exact same thing, yelling at us to open up, banging on the door like an angry man whom we had somehow wronged.

Then he left.

We were freaking out, ALL my roomie wanted to do was get her laundry, but we were both not comfortable with the her going outside alone or us leaving the apartment unattended. Eventually we called the campus police, who transferred us to the city police, who took our report and said that a police officer was going to stop by. I threw my hands up to my face slightly chuckling at the whole ordeal, I really didn’t want to deal with police. My roomie kept on saying how bad she’d feel if he just had the wrong apartment or something, but maybe now she could have an escort to the laundry room.

Simba Pouncing Lesson

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I’ve never been hesitant when looking through my window or peep-hole until tonight. I moved with caution, I felt like Simba during the scene in The Lion King where Mufasa teaches him how to pounce, quiet, steady, steady.

He never came back. Maybe he gave up or maybe he found his friends.

Then the police never showed up.

Oh, we got a phone call, saying that an officer circled and didn’t see anybody lurking. But, they NEVER asked what he looked like. I find that highly peculiar, I would think they would want to know who they were looking for so that some poor Joe smoking a cigarette or hanging out on the lawn wouldn’t become a suspect of creeping around our apartment. All they knew was that a man scared us.

I don’t think I’m in danger, I found the whole thing creepy, and I’m disappointed in the police officers who didn’t even bother to see if we were safe or okay.

Of My Ride in a Cop Car

Girl Walking Outside - Awesome Coat

I want that cloak.

Last night I almost punched my computer, kicked it across the room, and did a lovely tap dance on top of it, then repeat said actions on the entirety of WWU campus computer lab I was in. All because of a dang code writing project for one of my computer classes. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the painful details on writing PHP code and trying to incorporate CSS and HTML in order to make a cohesive webpage – though, it does make me sound super smart. The point is, because of this project I was on campus till 2:45AM. I easily could have been there till 5 or 6AM, but I wanted to catch the 3AM shuttle home.


It was cold. Hell, it was fucking freezing (note the oxymoron in the sentence and I’ll give you a dollar). It was the annoying kind of freezing where it looks warm. That happens a lot around here, it doesn’t snow often, so the cold feels extra cold because it looks like it’s actually 50+ degrees outside. It messes with your senses.

As I walked towards the bus stop I was convinced I was the only alert human being on campus. That moment would have been a great time to mug, rape, or murder me, for no one would notice till the normal waking hours. I was almost at the stop when I saw a bus turn the corner, that meant that I’d have to wait at minimum 15 minutes for the next bus to come along. I didn’t like that. Not at all.

The bus stop had the shuttle schedule posted, the last bus would arrive at 2:56AM and it was 2:48AM. I was psyched! Until at 2:56AM I watched the bus not turn down my direction, rather it took the road with NO BUS STOPS ON IT! The shuttle schedule lied! And now I was standing alone on the sidewalk in the dark and wintry weather. Obviously I was pissed, I practically started crying and had to resist the urge to do an angry dance like Kevin Bacon in Footloose.

I was in a state of limbo – should I call people or just walk?

I decided to call my close friends with cars, of course no one answered, considering the hour. Eventually I saw a cop drive by, then I watched it slow, U-turn and eventually pull up next to me. This is the second time this has ever happened to me. The first was at Jessy’s birthday party when I was drunk and hugging a fire hydrant – that’s a whole different story, I’ll write it later, promise.

It was a male cop, he questioned what I was doing out so late. I explained the shuttle situation to which he responded rather unsympathetically that it ends at three. I knew this, I told him about the bus driving passed me and how none of my friends answered their phones. He suddenly looked sympathetic, asked where I live, and motioned for me to get in the backseat.

The seat was hard plastic and the seat belt looked like it had been designed for a space ship. There was limited leg room and a glass window separating me from the officer. My first thought was, how do they arrest fat people? They’d never fit. The ride was awkwardly silent, I tried to break the ice: introduced myself – mostly I just said thank you a lot.

When we reached my apartment he got out, opened the door for me, and said, “It’s like a limo but less comfortable.”

I smiled, “I really appreciate it,” then walked towards my door while he drove away.

I really hope that is the last time I ride in the backseat of a cop car.

Of Girls, Cars, and Breakdowns

Girl, Broken Down Car

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It’s 1:17AM, just got home, smell like popcorn, and I still have an entire assignment to write.



I drive an old man car: a 1995 Century Buick. This car tends to run hot. VERY hot. The oil temperature (gauge?) thingy typically resides at about 3/4 or higher. For months I’ve been periodically (sometimes consistently) blasting the heat with the windows cracked, this usually lowers the temperature to a little higher than 1/2 – clearly, I’m not car savvy.

I call my Buick a sauna for a reason.

Tonight, for the first time, my old man car bitched out to the point where the gauge was so dangerously close to overheating that I had to pull over.

Thanks to movies, books, and television a young girl sitting by the side of the road at 12:30AM would result in one of five possible circumstances:

  1. A man pulls up and does something bad to the girl: rape, murder, kidnap, torture
  2. The girl is actually a psychopath and does something bad to an unsuspecting bystander
  3. Man stops to see if she’s okay – they fall in love
  4. Porno
  5. A cop asks what’s going on

None of the above happened. I sat there for about fifteen minutes with my heat on blast, waiting for the engine to cool down. Nothing happened. I felt like I was in an Indie movie as I sat in the dark watching cars drive by listening to the gentle harmonies and beautiful strings of Iron and Wine as they sung cinder and smoke, you’ll ask me to pray for rain, with ash in your mouth, you’ll ask it to burn again. My car swayed each time a car drove by, when the semi’s passed by my car rocked like a cradle. I watched headlights come and go, none of them slowed, most of them changed into the lane furthest from me. Not a single cop came by, part of me was hoping one would, just for the sake of a story. But nothing happened. My car cooled to driving temperature and I finally drove home.

I saw a car on the side of the road. I didn’t slow – the car looked abandoned.

I didn’t see a cop until I reached Bellingham; right next to my exit. It was parked uselessly on the side of the road lazily waiting for trouble to find them.

Thus I’ve concluded the following: if anyone is stranded on the freeway and they don’t have a cellphone on hand – they are fucked.