evil, evil basements

As I generally leave laundry as a weekend chore, about every Sunday night I am forced to dig deep into my reserves of courage and brave my apartment's dreaded basement. And before you prematurely decide that I'm being over-dramatic, let's take a look, shall we?

Stairs off the kitchen that go down to the basement:

The view at the bottom of the stairs (ahead to the left is an empty room with broken floor tiles; possibly it was the room where a previous tenant/psychopath kept his victims chained to the wall)

The laundry area. And yes; I have tripped many, many times into the mini-sinkhole on the floor.

 

And this is the view out the basement window:

So yeah...that's my creepy-as-heck basement/laundry area. I've been here seven months, and it still gives me the creeps every time I go down there after dark. Who knew doing laundry can take as much bravery as Harry Potter going into the forest to meet Voldemort in The Deathly Hallows?

grad·u·ate school. n. def: insanity you voluntarily signed up for.

The good news: inexplicably, in spite of four classes, two-and-a-half jobs (the half being an unpaid practicum internship), living in a shoebox on a non-existent budget with no time for sleep, I love my life. (Well, 99 percent of the time, anyway...)

This semester has been grueling. I'm taking four classes (against the advice of my advisor, who told me three per semester is the maximum they recommend), which should allow me to avoid summer semesters/summer tuition, yet keep me on track to graduate next May. The result: I am never without a textbook in my face (which has on occasion made crossing streets honk-filled adventures) or giant bags under my eyes. Yet I'm constantly reminded that I'm studying what I love, living in a great city, and having more (mis)adventures than I could've hoped for.

Life is good.