I moved into my current apartment four long years ago, and it’s held up pretty well in that time. Sure, it’s no palace, and certain parts are a little moldier or rattier than when I first moved in, but that’s all par for the course.
All of a sudden, though, it feels like the walls are about to come down on me. A few weeks ago, I came home to find that the locks in the front door to the building had been vandalized beyond repair. I had to pull a Spider-Man on the back gate and break into my own property. Typical of my landlord’s leisurely attitude toward tasks that involve the word “fixing,” our building was without a front door lock—as well as a front door knob—for a number of days.
And then yesterday, I notice that I look a little crooked in the bathroom mirror. Turns out the mirror is slipping off the medicine cabinet door. I have no idea how this could happen. Have my showers really been that hot as to MELT mirror-to-wood adhesive? Considering I still have all my skin, I’m guessing no, it was just shoddy workmanship coming home to roost. The handyman came by today to take the mirror/door away, before the adhesive dissolves entirely, causing the mirror to crash upon my sink and spray me with deathly reflective mirror shards.
Four years ago I dubbed this place The World’s Most Dangerous Apartment, partially as a dumb homage to Paul Shaffer’s band on Late Night. I never expected it to become so true. For those who plan to visit in the next month: hardhats are recommended. I fully expect my last moments here to involve me rolling out the door, hoping to grab my hat before the cavern door comes slamming down.