Squalid Apartments I Have Known
Age 19: I sublet a small studio apartment near campus. The kitchen and bedroom are in the same room. The bathroom is larger than the living room. When it rains, the living room floods.
Age 19: Over the summer, I share an apartment with my best friend Janell in a complex we affectionately call Booty Call Central. The apartment is palatial compared to the studio I inhabited previously. Janell and I have an awesome summer together. At the end of July, we're loathed to leave the place.
Age 19-20: I live in a two-bedroom apartment with a former high school classmate. The apartment, while spacious, is over a mile from campus and in a questionable neighborhood. While we live there, a woman gets murdered a few blocks away. Somehow, that's not nearly as creepy as my roommate's enormous collection of dolls. They're the first thing you see when you come in the door and they're nothing short of disturbing.
Age 20-21: I'm back in the same apartment at Booty Call Central, living with a coworker from my campus job. We start out on friendly enough terms, but that quickly disintegrates. I live for Fridays, when she drives back to her hometown and I mourn the end of each weekend, when she returns. When her fiancee comes to move her out at the end of the spring semester, I'm not sorry to see her leave. I may even do a little dance.
Age 21-22: On the Craptastic Scale, this place is second only to that first studio apartment. It's a one-bedroom; my last two roommate experiences have convinced me to live alone. The living room carpet is gold shag, the dining room carpet is orange/brown shag, and the bedroom carpet is blue-green shag. During the winter, the icy wind blows through the apartment unchecked. One day when I come home, the doorknob falls off in my hand. The base of the kitchen cabinet under the sink has a hole in it; the cat falls through a few times and explores the super-spooky basement.