You live in a 1970s shitty apartment in the hood, sandwiched between an abandoned elementary school that's been tagged by the Crips and a halfway house for people just getting out of the looney bin. Oh, and there's the questionable "massage parlor" down the street that has "Client List" written all over it. Your carpet is stained with cat vomit, you drink tap water and go to bed on one that sits atop a metal frame from Costco that has wheels on it.
Admittedly, I moved to this apartment to be closer to the now ex-boyfriend. It made sense for other reasons too, of course, like it's 5 minutes from my Grams, 10 minutes to downtown and an easy 20 minutes to both work and my dance class.
But there are times I really wonder why the hell I live here. Exhibit A:
No, this is not a full moon. This is a glimpse of my neighbor that apparently doesn't believe in belts or thinks it's 1995 when sagging was cool.
Exhibit B: My landlord called the other day to tell me Henry the maintenance man would be removing some rotted wood from my balcony. I come home to this:
As in - the entire balcony was gone, and Henry left this ridiculous sign.
Despite all of these quirks, I have to admit that these last couple months of singledom have allowed me to appreciate my ghetto apartment. Some highlights:
- I have been belting out songs to my cat. Crazy cat lady status.
- I'm officially obsessed with "Damages" on NetFlix. So sitting on my ass watching it is all the companionship I need.
- My bed may be janky, but it's all mine. Oh, and Cammie's too.
- The old-lady-chain-smoking-neighbor smell can easily be remedied with a couple Bath & Body Works candles and a Scentsy.
- My bedroom walls aren't shared with anyone, so neighbor sex noises are not an issue.
- Guest parking is a cinch - you'd be hard pressed to stupidly park your friend's car in the wrong place only to have it towed to Rio Linda (I may know something or two about that).
- With my neighbors, there's never a dull moment. Ever.