What are you looking at?: Please Don't Stab My Pizza Boy

Apartment hunting. Easy it is not, my friends. Easy it is not. Especially when you're not from the area and must rely on advice from family and friends. The South Side is really nice. The South Side is dumpy. West is bad, but this one block's OK. North is nice but too far a drive. You're not worried about price, are you? Luke's brother was great about finding me some apartment guides, so with well-meaning but conflicting advice and a little booklet I valued like the Bible, I was determined to find The Best Place to Live.

In the beginning, I did really well, studying the little pictures that feature ducks and lakes and hot tubs and comparing prices and amenities. Then a friend who spent last summer in Indianapolis to take an internship (with my future employer, in fact) recommended comparing all of my possible picks against this site. More advice, most of it saying not to move to place A because it sits near a water treatment facility and smells like poop and not to live in place B because somebody was shot in the unit next door and to PLEASE not move to place C because the pizza boy was stabbed on his way into the complex. While good to know, it's not very encouraging to a twenty-something-year-old woman who wants to keep her insides intact.

THEN, when I finally started visiting places, I didn't realize people normally don't apply to a complex until they have actually made the decision to live there. I filled out three applications because I kept thinking this possible Best Place to Live could be snatched up tomorrow and then I would be left with nothing but the stabbed-pizza-boy unit and then I would die.

After all is said and done, I did find a space I like very much and will officially occupy on May 16th. But I spent $105 on unnecessary application fees and partial security deposits. Seventy-five of that is refundable, but I'll have to wait four to six weeks to get it back.

Apartment hunting. Easy it is not, my friends. Easy it is not.