I had become very comfortable with my last apartment, so I
looked for a reason to loathe the landlady
and my 50-year old, next-door
neighbor to justify moving to a new place. It was not difficult. I only had to
think about them and realized I should congratulate myself for having lived there for years without developing some sort of heart
disease.
That old home is actually nice, strategically located (walking distance from the highway, where I could get buses, jeeps, and cabs), and peaceful.
Neighbors would go about their own businesses, and in fact, I
rarely saw any of them. The problem was I had no problems, so I left. Staying in a place for some time and actually
loving it makes me uneasy. It is worse than the unease I feel with my next-door
neighbor's moans while having sex with whomever she picked up on the street. Or
my landlady's gossips about how the couple in unit A have each of their own families
making the place their secret love nest.