If home is where the heart is...

... then am I really home?

So, this is my first blog. I've tried this stuff before, and I've never been successful in maintaining it. I guess that stems from my youth. I did have a diary once, around the age of 10. I only remember that I was 10 because for my 10th birthday I met one of the cast members of 90210 at my favorite sushi joint. I got her autograph and stuffed it into my diary when I got home... so I was 10. I still have that diary, but there's really not much to read. My best guess is I wrote on three different occasions.... probably not consecutively. With that said, here I am. I am going to try, you have my word, to keep this up to date... and interesting. We all know that interest is subjective so don't hold me to that, but I’ll do what I can.

Back to present day. In case you forgot, the title of this particular post is, "If home is where the heart is... then am I really home?" I know what you're thinking, "Oh, Melissa... you're so emo. Can I get you a tissue before you cry your woes onto your sleeve?" It's not that I'm emo, depressed, or anything of the sort. I'm more so frustrated.

My heart does live with me, his name is Damon.

The thing I was really referring to when I titled this blog is my, I should say our, living situation. We live in North Hollywood, the arts district that they call NoHo. Our apartment is a 1+1, or one bedroom one bath, for $1000 dollars... a month. It's robbery. Speaking of robbery. For that kind of money I should feel safe. I should feel more than safe. I should feel happy, content and satisfied... after all it's $1000. Well, I feel far from it. The alley behind our building (where the garage entrance/exit is) is ghetto as hell. Last night, for example, there were a group of guys drinking beer and smoking weed back there. That may not be all that bad, but when you mix it with police helicopters with search lights overhead each night it gets worse. Then there are the arrests in front of the apartment. I know that this is the world we live in, but for $1000 a month... I shouldn't have this. I thought that this kind of thing happened in the ghetto, where you pay $500 for a room and a pot to piss in. I'm in a ghetto; they just have a fancy name for it... the Arts District.