Afew days later I met Phillip, the second gaylord. He’s a fat white man with long black hair. Every morning, between midnight and 3 a.m., he blocks the exit so I have to speak to him before I leave for work.

There was a third gaylord that Joe didn’t tell me about. A white crack-head wearing sandals like a women would open his door every time I opened mine. He stopped when I showed him a forearm block. I guess he doesn't want to fight.

After a few days I began to cook (Carlos took over the kitchen my first three nights). I cooked breakfast burritos two days in a row. No one interrupted me. My third time at the stove I had ground beef cooking in vegetable oil - for taco burritos.

Joe walked into the kitchen while my meat sizzled. He stopped at the stove glared at the skillet. His face turned red and his expression was like Donald Trump’s: His mouth formed an “O”, his eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed. He rocked from side to side like he was going to explode. He stopped himself. “Put that grease in a can and put it in the trash, not down my sink.”

He stood over me and watched me cook. When I finished, he said, “Oh. You made little burritos.”

He obviously has the white man’s curiosity about black people. Blacks call that curiosity racism.

Carlos was trying to get close to me; like we were going to get along in this house. I’m sure he was disappointed that I wasn’t gay. One day, my second week here, Carlos banged on the bathroom door and yelled, “Get out the bathroom Man!”

I was sitting on the toilet. Startled, I quickly got up and sprayed Febreeze. I left. Carlos didn’t need to use the restroom. He opened the bathroom door wide so the smell of my bowel’s movement would fill the house.

The next day I tried to cook breakfast burritos. Joe walked into the kitchen while my bacon sizzled. He made an accusation: “Charles, are you doing something in the bathroom? Something I wouldn’t approve of? Because theirs a funny smell coming from the bathroom when you use it.”

“Joe,” I say, “are talking about how my poop smells?”

“No. Not poop. This is a metallic-like smell.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joe. What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. But Carlos smelled it. And I smelled it.”

I was uncomfortable and disturbed by Joe’s accusation. I left the kitchen with my food cooking. When he saw that I wouldn’t come back into the kitchen with him in it, he left.

The next day I tried again to cook. Joe walked in on me scrambling an egg.

“You see that,” Joe says, and points to the top of a cupboard. “Carlos put the pots and pans up there because he said they weren’t getting clean. So you use more soap.”

I always scrub the pots and pans clean after I use them.

Joe continues to walk in on me every time I use his kitchen. Even if I just use the microwave. He will not leave me alone for half-a-minute in his kitchen. It’s very annoying. Next, he moved in his niece, an older white woman, to stand in his kitchen all day or walk in his kitchen if I'm in there.

Now, I do not use his kitchen.

A google search on address 390 Olympia Pl, Anaheim, Ca, 92806 says the house is owned by Joseph, H. Angellar, which, we confirmed, is Joe.

I wish I could say Joe’s only problem was coming into the kitchen when I’m in the kitchen. But, no, he also knocks on my bedroom door. He stands in the hallway wearing only underwear, and when I leave my room, he ducks behind a wall.

He does not work. If his four tenants don't pay, he doesn't eat.

I get sick every time I see Joe. One moment I’m feeling fine, then I see him or talk with him, and then I’m sick. I feel anxious, nervous and I shake.

If you’re a white or Hispanic homosexual, then 309 Olympia Pl., might work for you. Otherwise, don’t show up here. It’ll be a Craigslist rent scam.

In this video you will see the homosexual Phillip. It's 2:00 a.m. and he's blocking the exit so I can't leave for work without speaking to him. He blocks my exit every morning. It doesn't matter if I leave at midnight or 3:00 a.m. After I shower and get dressed, he blocks my exit with his fat ass.