| |
|
Ah, let's talk about the first homes I had when I moved to this city.
Being not so much poor as being poor manager of money--something I'm still trying to shake--I rented a basement room from a man who taught choir at Emory University. Nice enough guy, quiet, studious, never bothered me when I came home late at night from one of my many debaucherous rock shows, but living in the basement...well, that says it all, doesn't it? I heard rats in the walls, lived with moldy smells, bad carpet, and leaky windows, and yet still tried to convince my parents upon one visit that this was "okay, no really."
Second apartment--which was an actual apartment, not a rented basement room--was the third floor of an old house in the same neighborhood. Small, but cute, carpet in the bedroom which I didn't like but I could deal with that, whatever. But what I wasn't told that everyone else in the house had horrible housekeeping habits.
I lived with roaches for nearly three years. Roaches when I turned on the lights, roaches that I would see crawling over my coffee table, my couch, my counters. And I sprayed and sprayed and I complained and I complained, but the landlord did nothing. I knew I had to leave when I saw AND heard my next door neighbor pissing out the upstairs window next to mine.
Thankfully, I became smarter and moved into subsequent apartments that have no vermin problems. Saving a dollar doesn't translate into brains. Pay a little more and you will be well-rewarded. Brrrr, I'm getting bloody hives thinking about this. |
|
|
