Living the dream?

I dedicate much of my blog to complaints about the travails of living in Brooklyn, so when people say my living situation isn’t nearly as awful as I let on, I perk up and breathe a sigh of relief, mainly because I know my mother would be relieved to hear someone thinks my apartment is perfectly safe.

This week, my friends Anna and Maddie visited from the University of Arizona. Faithful readers of this blog (among the few!), they’ve heard all about my problems with the area and what not, but upon seeing my new home for themselves, they concluded that I exaggerated its awfulness. Which I already knew. Sort of.

They agree that my bedroom view of a junkyard is unpleasant and uninspiring. They also see why I constantly gripe about the G train, which is the most unreliable line on the New York subway system. But my other issues aren’t so grave, they say. College seniors, they claim I seem to be living the dream for supporting myself in a big city. It doesn’t feel that way to me, especially since I limit my nights on the town and experience immense loneliness every time I return to my isolated apartment.

While we’re on the topic of the apartment, I have to move out as soon as possible. There’s nothing I dislike more than relocating, packing up my stuff, and apartment hunting, but this will be a worthwhile change. I need to reside closer to my office and friends, so I think I’ll be a lot more cheerful once I’m in a new spot. Hopefully my next neighborhood will have a stronger community and not cause me so much shame and stress. Anna and Maddie watched me fight with the lock to the front door of my apartment building and realized firsthand how hard it is for me to actually enter my home. Things simply don’t have to be that way.

The girls understand why I believe my apartment is haunted. I warned them of the supernatural force when they first arrived, and last night as we were about to fall asleep, Maddie whispered, “Is that sound the ghost?”

“What?” I asked.

“The constant ticking. It has a weird pattern and rhythm to it.”

“Oh, I’ve grown to tune it out. But yeah, that’s the ghost.”

She was right: We hear tons of creaks in the night, but the noise is constant. The building is either really old or something weird is going on. We already find odd objects that belong to none of us around the apartment, so there’s no doubt in my mind that this old, sorry place is occupied by an annoying attention whore ghost. I used to imagine this sort of thing would scare me, but I’m honestly more bothered than frightened by it. I get that you have unfinished business and all, but don’t really like sharing my already-too tiny apartment with a lost soul.

In spite of it all, I don’t have it all that hard, but hopefully my circumstances improve when I leave this behind next month:


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