Two years ago, I signed a lease for the 600 sq. ft. apartment I currently inhabit. I’m starting to think moving here was a mistake.

It seemed like a good idea in the beginning. My first apartment post-divorce, it was small and cute—a place I could furnish cheaply with girly stuff: baroque frames and floral rugs. Rent was inexpensive, at just $500/month for the first year. I figured, with all the money I was saving, I could start putting something into an online savings account. Maybe I could squirrel enough away for a down payment on a small house, which was something I’d wanted for a while and felt kind of robbed of by the divorce, since I no longer had a cosigner spouse.

So when I first moved in to my space—stars in my eyes—it was easy to overlook the sloppy paint covering the 1970s cabinetry, the mildewed grouting, the broken hinges, the stuck door, the ominous sound of a compressor coming from the crawl space. But then one day, not too long into my stay, the sky fell on my head. Like literally! It was all downhill from there.

Stepping out of the bath one morning, I stopped at the sink to brush my hair. I had not gotten but two strokes in when a large chunk of drop-ceiling came crashing down on my skull. Startled, I fell backward. It was very strange, lying there like that. It’s not every day one finds themselves sprawled out, pantsless and dazed on the bathroom floor … at least not when sober.

In the months that followed I discovered all sorts of novel quirks about my humble abode. And many times I wondered if my apartment—just like the evil ship computer in Stanley Kubrick’s, 2001: A Space Odyssey—was trying to kill me.

For example, there was the incident after the hurricane, when the broken limbs of a massive oak came smashing through my patio at precisely the time I’d usually pass through on my way to work. Fortunately, I was reporting from home that day. Unfortunately, unable to pry my door in the aftermath—the tree jammed so hard against it—I became a prisoner in my own home. That would’ve been OK if I lived in a nice manse, but when you live in a place that wants you dead, well it’s quite unsettling. When the maintenance man finally came to cut me out, he said that being imprisoned inside was better than a sharp stick in the eye. I asked him to stop speaking in clichés. He said he wasn’t.

And then there was the time the complex burned down … well 10 units of it anyway … mine not included. No, I can’t pin my apartment on that one. Police reports site maintenance’s illegal storage of chemicals in the unit garage as the source of accelerant. As you can imagine, this caused quite a stir amongst the residents. Partly because it was just so darn stupid to store flammable supplies in a residential space, but mostly because it was largely believed that maintenance had no supplies, it takes so long to get anything fixed around here.

It’s too bad it takes so long to fix things, because SOMETHING IN MY APARTMENT IS ALWAYS BROKEN. Take the plumbing for example. Periodically, and for no discernible reason, I will lose all water pressure. Or if the pressure’s working, the hot water won’t be. Well, that’s not entirely true. Last week when I came home from a six-mile run, dripping with sweat and grime and all manner of nastiness, both the pressure and hot water were out. Now that was a pleasure, and by “pleasure” I mean ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE. Thank God they have showers at the gym … and that I didn’t get fungus from washing there.

Also, my dishwasher is now broken. But I’m afraid to call it in, should they fix the problem like they “fixed” the mold issue: that is, with a can of white spray paint.

Lately I’ve been thinking it’s time to vacate the premises. Really, I don’t need to continue my residency in the House of Horrors. My corporate job pays enough I can afford to upgrade. However, by leasing somewhere more expensive, the house fund will take a hit … But there again, better the fund than Hänni; Death by domicile is highly undesirable.