Emily: worst roommate ever.

I have the worst roommate ever. Her name is Emily.
She, knowing full well that I have acquired paranoid disorder as a result of my extensive study of psychopaths and serial killers this semester, has never ceased to (as she claims) "help me heal through her therapeutic tactics." I came home tonight quite late after writing a paper about California Strangler, Edmund Kemper, at Espresso Royale. I clenched my pepper spray all the way home. Upon "safely" arriving, I walked up the stairs toward my bedroom and on the way noticed that the bathroom door was ajar, the light on, and the sink water running full blast. I peered in and found NO ONE. I started calling Emily's name...."Emily????? Emily????" NO RESPONSE. First thought: emily was slaughtered in the midst of washing her hands at the bathroom sink.
Then I went into my room and turned on my light, still thinking over the "death" of my roommate. But then, she wasn't dead anymore because she jumped out of the closet.
I hate her. So much.