Only recently did I realize that what I hated about life here was not so much dealing with my brilliant but very neurotic boyfriend in a two-room apartment, but the roaches, which reminded me of the place I lived in when I was 10-12.

I suppose I was somewhat status-conscious in this period, and the Harvey St. place felt like a step down to me, for it was by any measure squalid: dark, dirty, and in poor repair. Our relationship was coming apart the whole time we were there, and its final collapse let me escape without regrets.