Welcome to Slummerville

What a shithole.

This is my new apartment — a mold infested, stinky, first-floor four room dump in a 100+ year-old building in a crummy neighborhood in Slummerville. Here I was, showing my mother my new home — the place I’m supposed to be proud of — and she couldn’t even speak. But don’t worry, voices were heard.

There was a drunk homeless man screaming as he walked past the place.

I later said I’d never have people over. How bad is that? It’s just too gross. I’m ashamed of where I live.

I don’t get it; I’m sure this wasn’t this bad when I picked it out two months ago. Of course, the abandoned building next door looked like someone had been on a long vacation and forgot to mow the lawn… vegetation hadn’t yet creeped into the windows. It had a backyard where Tequila could poop and a garden… I just didn’t notice the back window that provided a clear view of the bathroom. And the tenants clearly didn’t clean the floor or food-stained walls in months. Yuck.

As we commute from home this week, I can’t help but feel defeated. I went from a fantastic, historic and beautiful apartment on Mass Ave in Cambridge, with tree lined streets leading to Harvard, to a shitty place in the one town I never thought I’d inhabit — SLUMMERVILLE. A voice in my head keeps asking, “What have I done?” and “Can I get out of this?”

Answer: “No.”

Good thing I believe in making the best out of things.