Although I’m ordinarily a(n) (1) person, I’m tempted to move into a cave, far from other people—and landlords. Okay, I admit that I didn’t use enough (2) in choosing apartments to rent. But does every one of them have to be a (3) to my health, mental stability, and checkbook?
When I moved into my first apartment, I discovered that the previous tenant had already subleased the place to a very large family—of cockroaches. Although I kept trying, I was never (4) enough to swat any of them; they were able to dodge all my blows. In time, they became so bold that they paraded across the kitchen floor in the daytime in a(n) (5) manner meant to impress upon me how useless it was to try to stop them. As soon as I could, I moved out.
My second apartment was a(n) (6) nightmare—the filth was hard on the eyes and the nose. The place even assaulted the ears, as the walls were as thin as cardboard. My neighbors played music until all hours. Since I was too poor to buy my own sound system, I became a dedicated listener. I even attended some of the neighbors’ parties, in a(n) (7) way—with my ear to the wall. When my landlord found out, he tried to charge me seven dollars a day for entertainment, and he wasn’t being (8)—he meant it. I moved again, hoping to find a decent, (9) landlord.
I rented my last apartment because it was supposedly located in an area of (10) safety, considering the rent I can afford. A week after I moved in, I came home to find the locks broken and my belongings all over the floor. On the dresser was an angry note: “What gives you the right to live in such a nice neighborhood and not have anything worth stealing?”
Maybe I should have stayed with the cockroaches. At least they were honest.