I lived on the ground floor of an apartment complex for a year and a half: stomping feet, barking dog, and loud music. After numerous complaints about the dog, the manager told the tenants the dog must go. Well, it turns out the dog's owner was the tenant's boyfriend, and he wasn't on the lease, so he had to go too.
About a month later, she moved out. The tenant who moved in was another stomp-walker. She loved birds and set out a birdfeeder on her balcony, right above my patio. I would usually sit on my patio in the morning and have my coffee outside. When I went out, all of my furniture was covered in birdseed and droppings. Again, I complained to the manager numerous times.
Finally, I asked to be put on a waiting list for a similar apartment to what I had, but on the third floor. It took three months, but one became available. I lived there for eight years.
When I moved again to a newly built apartment building (I was the first tenant to move in), the best they could offer was a second-floor apartment. I had issues with the stomping-walker drunk fighter upstairs, plus the hyperactive kids next door. I had enough.
When I moved to Colorado, I swore I would never again live someplace where other people live on the other side of my walls or ceiling—too many inconsiderate people.
