Apartment roulette

Now that my day job is less frenzied (for a month or so), I can return to my real talent: being paralyzed by indecision. I'm spending all my time looking at or obsessing over apartments. Yesterday I was tempted by one in Bay Village, but then I was afraid that I would be haunted by the ghosts of the former regulars at the Napoleon Club, a gay piano bar in the neighborhood -- unkindly referred to as the "wrinkle room" -- that was transformed into expensive condos several years ago. (Specifically, I don't want to be visited by the spirits of the couple from Rhode Island who used to request songs from "Little Shop of Horrors" every Saturday night.) No, I can't be part of a neighborhood that has become such a bore. I actually put down a deposit on a luxury unit several subway stops from downtown Boston, mainly so I can impress friends giving me a ride home (as long as I don't invite them in to see my furniture), but I'm getting cold feet about being so far away from a good place for brunch. (My kitchen ain't going to qualify.) So this weekend I've been looking at places in the South End and in South Boston, all of which have had something for me to complain about. For example, the basement apartment was nice until I looked up at the two tiny windows in the bedroom and noticed that the screens were encrusted with dead insects. And the third-floor unit had plenty of room, but I had a vampire-like aversion to the mirrored doors of the huge bedroom closet. I guess it comes down to a swanky apartment in a dull suburb or a dump in the heart of the city. I apologize to all my housewarming guests in advance for the inconvenient location or the strange smell in the hallway. I just don't know which yet.