Grotty

I live in a large, cement apartment block on a quiet back alley. My boss, who recommended the pad, described the building's outward appearance as "grotty." This is accurate. From the street, the monster looks like something you might see in Belgrade or some formerly communist city with a scary history. Its white paint is stained with grime and, in many places, has completely chipped away in large chunks, revealing the natural sidewalk-cement color hiding behind the halfass mask. In some places, the facade itself is getting a bit crumbly too. At one corner, an exposed drain pipe leaks a waterfall of slime into a strange-smelling street-side puddle. At a nearby overhang, a cracked piling reveals what appears to be the building's inards (pipes and wires and whatnot) held in place by silver electric tape. Jesus, was this mammoth cinder block assembled with duct tape?

Despite its "grotty" exterior and the somewhat disconcerting fact that I could probably knock the fucker over with a small sports coupe, the 10-story cement lego still manages to look really cool. While apartment hunting, the building was the only spot I scoped which looked like home.

Unlike a few intrusively sparkly (garrish?) condo towers nearby, the my apartment building sits well amidst its equally grotty brothers and sisters, seeming at ease in the mazelike network of alleys and noodleshops of the surrounding Aree Market. While the not-so-distant condo towers loom behind their locked gates like outsiders with suspicious intentions, my building looks more like the neighborhood's dignified and righteous civic leader. Its weathered exterior and central neighborhood location stand as testament to its trustworthiness; this building's here to serve the human community. Plus, its plant-covered balconies spill tropical foliage over their railings, giving the appearance that the grot-block houses a magical ecosystem.