Renting season is upon us. I know this because every day now, I get interrupted by at least two groups of clueless freshies looking for their first real home as they parade through my room.

They gawk at my spotless décor, all the while exclaiming to themselves how well-decorated everything is and how, “It’s absolutely perfect! We’ll take it!”

Only they never do. Or else the tours would cease.

Truth be told, as annoying as these tiny tots are, I sort of feel bad for them. I mean, here I am, residing in what can safely be called a beautiful home, especially by college standards, for only about three months, and already I’m chomping at the bit to move out.

How can this be? Your house is so beautiful, Cristina! Your draperies, spotless! Your kitchen counters, Formica! Why would you ever want to leave this paradise?

One word: my landlord.

Her name rhymes with “Oh damn,” scam and lame (without the “e.”)

Maybe you’ve heard of her? She certainly rocks a Swastika tattoo somewhere on her person, and I’m pretty sure she fuels up her little Mercedes convertible with the blood of her tenants.

With such a reasonably decent — OK, flipping amazing — house, I really shouldn’t be complaining, my friends tell me. After all, most of them got shafted and ended up on the top floor of some sketchy elevator-less Gothic on West, or even worse, a sorority.

But I definitely got the shorter end of the stick.

Pray tell, how so?

Like so: When I first moved in, I blew a circuit in my room. No big deal. Find the circuit breaker, flip the switch, go back to the “Dance Dance” tutorial I was watching so I could hand my Asian roommate’s ass to her next time we hit the mall.

But, au contraire, things did not go as smoothly as planned.

You see, upon entering the laundry room, I discovered that my basement has two rooms in it, which can be considered no less terrifying than the Saw I-CXIV (or whatever sequel they’re on) film sets.

Think stone, covered in 4 inches of spider webs, with darkness leading into an unspeakable abyss of God knows what for miles and miles and … the length of my house.

Somewhere, in this pit of despair, lives my circuit breaker.

And, I’m convinced, my landlord.

As I peered inside, I could detect a faint, but steady, breathing sound. This is not something you would want to detect when you are home alone in a dark, dungeon-y basement.

So of course, I decided to live in darkness until my housemate came home and I would force him, unawares, to venture into hell on earth by himself, Dante in tow.

This is just the beginning. That same day, I detected the breathing sounds coming out of my floor vents. My floor vents … that lead DIRECTLY TO THE BASEMENT!

AHH! Do you not understand the severity of this situation? I say to you again, AHH!

I’ve since learned the monster's habits, whom I will heretofore name Lady Spam, habits. I’ve noticed that Lady Spam only breathes during the day, when she sleeps. But at night, when she feeds, the noise conveniently disappears.

Also, Lady Spam finds it convenient and slightly amusing to decorate all the other properties she owns with beautiful mums, but only if they’re highly visible from the street to prospective tenants.

On secluded streets like mine, flowers are never to be seen. Presumably because the monster is allergic to beauty.

In addition, the monster seems to hate all things cute and cuddly. This results in her ridiculous pet policies, which require multi-thousand dollar down payments, presumably to replace $10 worth of shit carpet, from an animal that refuses to urinate anywhere except a litter box.

This is also not to mention the sweet letters we receive any time we try to give the place some class.

This summer, when the monster usually hibernates because, after selling what soul it had to the devil (by the way, this is word 666 in my article … just thought you might find that amusing, in a sense), she decided that rats were not a serious enough problem to warrant sending a maintenance man, that the oil-covered fake plants she considered decoration did not warrant removal, and that a dresser with only one door functioning was still considered providing a dresser in every room.

But I guess these complaints are relatively minor, compared with the rancid living conditions some of my friends have had to put up with. Read: living in a closet, literally.

Nonetheless, I don’t think that when I signed my lease, I signed up to have Lucifer incarnated into a blonde monster living downstairs.

I mean, for all I know, she could be farming babies for sustenance in that basement. Or running an illegal bookie station.

Whatever the case may be, learn from my disaster: Read your lease, and not in your landlord’s office with your first month’s rent in hand.

Or better yet, just be wary of anyone whose name rhymes with sham, jam or “Kill myself if I must live here another minute going to I am.”

Cristina Stiller is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at cstiller@cornellsun.com. Believe You Me appears alternate Mondays this semester.