Last Straw

I’m tired of apartment living. I really really am. In the last six years I have had a multitude of living spaces, all of which came without a garage, and many of which that required me to lug my 15 bags of groceries a half mile or up a flight of stairs to my front door.
I have tolerated this current space at my maximum capacity, but yesterday I officially reached my breaking point. Some of the things that have been tolerated up to this point include: coming home to 18 stray cats prowling around our front door for weeks, ants and spiders, smelly cat man’s apartment stench wafting up through our vents from downstairs, going over 12 speed bumps to get in or out of the complex, notices posted to our door about recent crimes committed in the complex, and (I really don’t even want to admit this one) cockroaches. The first cockroach sighting alone almost sent me packing my bags and headed back to my parents’ house. However, yesterday was the most obvious and hit-me-over-the-head sign that this apartment, or at least this area, has run its course. I was driving home from a different direction than normal after running an errand, and on the side of the road 5 minutes from our apartment there is a giant lighted sign usually found near construction sites warning you that there are workers ahead or the left lane is closed. This sign flashed an entirely different kind of warning. As I drove by, huge letters screamed three alternating tips to remain safe in my neck of the woods: “LOCK YOUR DOORS. SECURE YOUR VALUABLES. INCREASED PATROLS.” And the countdown to Clayton’s graduation and consequent salary begins.