By Debbie Hadley
In a student-friendly apartment complex that shall remain nameless, there lives a girl who moved in last August with low expectations. They were exceedingly met.
What is it about student housing, where under-age drinkers congregate in masses and ant infestations are at their highest? Such is the life here.
I live with three roommates, all of whom were unknown to me before my move-in. They are exceptionally nice, luckily for me. I can’t imagine getting stuck with the guy who fatally damaged five parked cars last month.
The four of us share a small apartment in a complex where it is not uncommon to get a whiff of the stale aroma from last night’s kegger on a Thursday morning. Minding my step over the previous night’s beer cans that sometimes litter the sidewalk is another weekday hazard.
For those of you who like to party on weekdays, let me voice the opinion of those of us who depend on rest rather than Red Bulls: “Go to sleep!” No one wants to hear Ke$ha at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday.
Or maybe I just don’t. But that should mean something (introverts out there, throw me a bone here.)
Seriously, maybe it’s because I’m 22—which makes me two or three years older than the girls I room with (i.e., officially old, so the lack of patience with an abundance of noise comes naturally) —but I truly cannot stand the racket.
The walls are so thin that the sound system from next door, the living room, upstairs (insert other close proximity area) rumbles and pounds all night long, bouncing around the walls of my brain, keeping me from dreamless, blissful sleep.
Regardless, sleep is hard to obtain otherwise when my upstairs neighbor is slappin’ the bass with little skill. Let’s be honest. No skill. It’s just noise.
Life, however, moves ever-forward. While I will still be privy to all the hustle and bustle of student apartment life that my part-time job can afford me, I’ll look back and wonder how I survived without taking all the pain pills I can legally swallow.