Sick of the pushback from Sociopath and her accomplice, I called the San Francisco Police to assist with forcing the sociopath to open my bedroom door.
“For fuck sake,” an attorney said, “What took you so long. And bring a locksmith while you’re at it.”
“Do you have a letter from a lawyer?” The protectors and servers asked.
“Yes.” I answered. Two hours later, the locksmith, the Police and my boyfriend and I arrived at my property. I knew sociopath and my roommate were not at home, but I knew there was someone else in the apartment.
Enter another dose of dysfunction to a situation that is anything but normal to anyone with any sense and logic.
When the cops knocked on my apartment door to announce that I would need to be let into my own room, the perpetual couch surfer who my roommate took a shine to, and for anonymity’s sake I’ll call The Sycophant, answered my apartment door. “Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?” Every ordinary citizen everywhere said in unison, echoed out loud through the sentiment of my increasingly agitated boyfriend who has watched this thing unfold into the campy off off version of “Pacific Heights.”
Are you out there John Waters? This shit is gold.
Sycophant immediately pulled the cops into the apartment and started dissing me, in her high pitched whiny cunty voice. If there were a recording of what the word “cunt” would sound like it would be her voice. High pitched and entitled, etched with hysteria. It’s not adorable.
I met The Sycophant at a party a couple of years ago. The classic San Francisco woman, you can check off all the correct boxes, to fit her into the stereotypical high minded consciousness that seems to encapsulate liberal San Francisco. Vegan. Check. Non profit worker. Check. Tattooed. Check. Tragic. Check. Fan of the arts. Check. Etc. , etc. Even down to the “Peter Pan” complex that most women cling to out of desperation to remain relevant and hip in a city that becomes younger and wealthier as the seconds tick by. She would be the kind of cliche’d woman who would post memes of “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History” on her social media and would rock the feminism dialogue that might impress an out of touch baby boomer, like, say my roommate.
In her late 40’s, The Sycophant was adamantly committed to dressing and behaving half her age. She was immature, impetuous, overly friendly, demanding, seemed to relate to just about everything everyone said, and charmingly homeless.
Narcissism, but not much else, had peaked.
Even when I was younger and should have been carefree and fun and all the things that teenagers or twenty somethings have a right to be, I wasn’t. I could never relate to those people and so when I first met her, I immediately disliked The Sycophant. Unfortunately, because I am a decent human being, I didn’t dismiss her out of hand as I should have.
I’m surprised she and Sociopath didn’t get along better. Then again, Sociopath may have only feigned disinterest in The Sycophant for my benefit. She probably always liked her, but was just placating me, since that is the duplicitous nature of a sociopath. Chances are, they’re the best of friends since they have one thing in common: their hatred of me. I’ll explain why The Sycophant hates me in a minute.
My roommate and sociopath were called home from work to open my door. I realize it was most inconvenient but SO IS BEING UNLAWFULLY LOCKED OUT OF YOUR HOME WITH ALL YOUR POSSESSIONS LOCKED INSIDE.
My roommate pulled up in her car and the cop listened to her grumble and complain about me and say “This isn’t the first time I’ve had problems with her.”
“Yea, ” I said under my breath, “Like the FIRST time I had to file a complaint against you with the Rent Board when I asked you to show me a copy of the lease which you are required by law to provide me, and you fucking refused.”
That’s me, a problem roommate exercising my rights like any annoying legal tenant.
The Sycophant and my roommate had a field day dragging my name, and character, through the mud, saying I was threatening and abusive and a problem while I was forced to stand downstairs and listen to this shit.
Speaking of shit, my boyfriend nearly lost his. “They’re lying about you,” he said loudly and valiantly, “And the cops are buying it.” The Sycophant and roommate fed off each other’s hysteria like a couple badly aging menopausal crones as they prattled on about how I was clearly the demon seed of all roommates. I actually felt sorry for the police, sort of, having to placate them through the Cop Bullshit Filter.
The fact that a couch surfing professional leach and a Master Tenant that refuses to abide by any Rental Ordinance Laws would even be heard or listened to by the police could only happen in the most dysfunctional city in the country. This disgusting fact is not lost on me, which is why I write these articles.
Sociopath arrived in a huff and the police instructed her to open my bedroom door. I was going to hand her the Notice to Pay Rent Or Quit (she only paid me two months of rent) right then and there, as an attorney suggested I do, but I decided to mail it at a later date, and keep the current level of dysfunction at that very moment at a fairly controlled level. Why add to the drama? I’ve never been a good drama queen anyway which is why I never fit in and why I can’t subscribe to the hysteria in the making that could amply describe the 2016 Election.
The Sycophant and my roommate (the Master Tenant) thrive on the drama:
As I said I disliked The Sycophant immediately upon meeting her. If there was any chance that I may have come around to changing my mind, or there were any window of opportunity to change my mind, that window shut tight forever the night she attended a party my boyfriend hosted, just a couple months after we met her. We met her at a holiday party.
He hosted an Oscar Party a couple months after I met her, in February, and there were a good number of people that attended. I had just finished putting my makeup on, and my make up mirror was on the table with my eyeliner pencil sitting near or on the makeup mirror. The Sycophant announced very loudly, “Geez Julie what kind of party is this? Are you doing lines of coke? I didn’t know it was that kind of party!” I despised her with every fiber of my being right then and there. I don’t take drugs. I don’t judge people who do but I only take the occasional cocktail or glass of wine.
Later on, after all the guests had arrived and everyone was chatting and comfortable she brought it up again, “Julie had a mirror and a pen out and it looked she was doing lines of coke! Bring out the coke Julie!” Everyone looked kind of appalled and uncomfortable in that moment. My boyfriend and I ignored her. She was clearly trying to undermine me. The cunty narcissistic Sycophant was trying to undermine me, who was graciously co-hosting her at a party.
That was the night she met my roommate and they of course got along famously. The Sycophant ended up coming over to my apartment and sleeping on the couch for a couple nights, which turned into a couple of weeks which turned into a couple of months.
I confronted my roommate. I asked to see a copy of the lease to see what the house rules were regarding overnight guests, knowing that even non paying tenants can claim tenancy in San Francisco. It started to feel like I had a squatter on my hands because I had a squatter on my hands. My roommate of course refused to show me any lease, claiming she didn’t even have one. What? Was she a squatter too?
To complicate matters, The Sycophant wanted to become very friendly with me and my boyfriend, insisting we do trips to wine country with her, which we did. Once. She drove us in this piece of shit car she said she borrowed from one of her clients. She is a professional house sitter. No joke. I became agitated and uncomfortable.
I wasn’t convinced the car wasn’t borrowed without her client’s knowing. My agitation showed and she had the gall to ask me if I was on my period. Like I said, she is a bonafide cunt. And in that moment probably a car thief as well.
I complained to my friend about her. “I have this cunty squatter in my house..” “You mean The Sycophant?” my friend asked, after I had described her and said her real name. “Yea that’s her.” I said. “She has been blacklisted from…” and my friend started to rattle off a couple nonprofits . “She tried to go behind the Director’s back and organize things without proper protocol. She was blacklisted from even volunteering.”
Of course this is the type of person squatting in my fucking house. I’d rather have a family of Syrian refugees than this shit cunt.
Just as I found this out about her, The Sycophant was volunteering for a non profit for the arts and was trying to undermine the marketing Director’s job by cozying up to my boyfriend to get him to help her redo the Director’s marketing flyer for an upcoming event. Once the project was complete, she invited us out to a wine bar as a thank you and then stiffed us with the bill! Did I mention she was a cunt?
This entire time of the occasional house sitting gig, and the volunteering for the non profit art collaborative, and working a very part time job where she was making decent money, she was living in my house for free. Meanwhile I was getting crazy pushback from my roommate every time I mentioned I wanted to see a copy of the lease or every time I asked The Sycophant contribute to household expenses. If she was going to have legal residency as a squatter than she should pay something. Anything.
And she did pay. She paid for a fucking plane ticket to Europe. I basically funded her trip to fucking Europe. San Francisco, enabling the art of sycophancy to its finest, right? Where else can you be a god damn squatter, too poor to contribute to household expenses but can afford a trip to Europe?
The Sycophant left for Europe and in the few weeks she was gone, I was satisfied that my roommate was not overcharging me in rent, although I never saw a copy of the lease.
The Sycophant returned and just assumed she would slide back into my apartment and live as she had for the few months prior to her trip to Europe. I told her if she wanted to reside at the apartment and have legal tenancy, she would need to contribute to the household expenses. She became hysterical and accused me of being unreasonable. My roommate took her side. It was like dealing with two of the most ignorant, unimaginably selfish spoiled toddlers in the shape of two women where reason, logic and accountability had been replaced with tantrums, hysteria and gossip.
It was a disgusting display of aging Mean Girls, as Sycophant took to social media to disparage my reputation to make herself look victimized as she feigned concern over my mental health.
Because that’s the best you got? You don’t get what you want after you throw an embarrassing petulant tantrum, and all you can come up with is that I’m mentally imbalanced?
Here’s what I told her in response. Stay. the. Fuck. Out. Of. My Life. You. Fucking. Sycophant. And she did. Up until the other day, when she opened the door to the cops.