He’s banging on my door at 3am, asking if I have anything to eat. I tell him there’s a thing of frozen mozzarella sticks in the freezer—mostly so he’ll go away. The Patriarchy never says thank you. The Patriarchy puked up the entire contents of his stomach right in front of my door. The Patriarchy stained the rug. He didn’t even drink his own beer—instead chose to drink all of mine.
The Patriarchy does not believe in chipping in for gas. My apartment is a ten-minute walk from his office, but he insists I drive. Somehow, The Patriarchy never gets a hangover. He’s wearing his suit like always, tapping his foot, trying to get me to run the next red light because “it would be hilarious.” I’m not even sure what his job is. All I know is he’s going to spend the day texting me about “the game” which he knows I didn’t watch. And when I get home, twenty of The Patriarchy’s loudest friends are going to be there with him shouting about stuff, and spilling Natty Ice everywhere.
The Patriarchy doesn’t even live here. I don’t even know why he’s still on my couch. I’ve left his things on the porch twice, and each time they all magically end up back in my livingroom. When I try to bring this up, he pretends he didn’t hear. I’ve tried asking the landlord, but he doesn’t see The Patriarchy. The police have told me repeatedly that he does not exist, though I have shown them documents, and photographs, and various possessions in ziploc bags. I sent his fingerprints to the national database, and they told me they were smudges, just smudges on the paper. Say I should clean the house top-to-bottom, and be rid of him. Say I should leave. I did once. I moved into a new apartment with clean walls and smooth wood under my feet. I woke up the next morning he was there: tall, sweaty, filling up every room.
-via Electric Cereal