HORRIFYING PLACES THAT I'VE LIVED!

HORRIFYING PLACES THAT I HAVE LIVED!

THEY'RE they were. The two of them. Nestor and his mother, La Senora (they're from Peru) standing on top of the decrepit apartment building steps, arms folded, a collective sneer of disgust creasing their faces.
I trudge reluctantly up those decaying steps, trepidation filling my whole being, sweating profusely on this boiling July day.
"Oh shit - NOW what?"
They lead me to the ancient sink counter in the kitchen, on which stands an empty plastic gallon jug. My gallon jug.
"Why?! Why?! asks Nestor, a tone of exasperation clearly reflected in his tone.
First, let me give you a bit of background information, so I won't appear COMPLETELY insane. Nestor is a catering co-worker; Upon my return from my fourth trip to Ecuador, totally penniless, I DESPERATELY needed an place to stay and took his offer of a room - sight unseen. Uh oh. The building is located in the derelict-ridden section of Jersey City - The Heights. It is a railroad flat. For those of you who don't know what a railroad flat is - it's basically a long hall with rooms to the side. Bad enough. I am in the middle room - between La Senora in the front room and Nestor in the back - or vice versa depending on the way you look at it. In any case, I'm in the middle. They often argue with each other, yelling between the rooms like an old married couple. My room is a crumbling disaster - no windows, peeling paint, bedposts tied together by rope, and very narrow. DEPRESSING. La Senora has to walk THROUGH my room to get to the kitchen, where she spends 16 hours a day. In order for me to get from my room to the bathroom in the kitchen (especially at night) - you have to pass through a veritable gauntlet full of murderous obstacles, including various mousetraps placed strategically around the floor. There are the glue traps and the snapping traps. In the winter, when I wear socks to bed, the glue traps stick to my socks, while the snapping traps snap on my toes, causing me great agony, as I muffle screams of horror in order to not wake Nestor up - whose room I am passing through. Or clumping through, with the glue traps stuck to my socks. When I finally do reach the bathroom, the ceiling collapses on my head. Finally, I've had ENOUGH! I pee into my gallon jug at night, and empty it into the toilet in the morning, when La Senora is not looking, of course. I sleep much better. This one time, however, I leave for my parent's house down the Jersey Shore for three days, somehow forgetting the gallon jug in my decrepit closet. This has been a particularly HUMID July, and the mysterious smell is driving them mad - that is, until, they find the source of the odor.
And here we go..