New Apartment.

People keep asking me about my apartment. I can’t tell if they really are interested even after a month, have a genuine concern about me living alone and are casually hinting at it, or feel like they should say something to me and asking about my apartment is the new talking about the weather. I figured I might finally answer this question with something other than, “It’s good.”

I moved twenty minutes closer to work, which is downright delightful. I can sleep in longer in the morning. Or, if I don’t sleep in, I have twenty extra minutes to myself to do whatever I want before going to work. I live above a flower shop. Two doors over to the right is a gas station with Subway, so I don’t have to cook ever if I don’t want to. Two doors over to my left is a bar. This is what they call “The Life.”


The apartment itself isn’t very big. I call it a studio because there’s technically two rooms: the bathroom and everything else. It’s precisely the right size for me. Al of the floors are hardwood. This is great on two levels. I cannot vacuum. I’m not sure what it is in my genetic makeup that clashed so violently to make me so ineffective while vacuuming, but it’s not a talent I possess. I can do all sorts of other cleaning, just not vacuuming. I also have this tactile issue with carpets. It’s like constantly being forced to wear socks. My feet are always warm and touching something soft. I hate carpet. I like cool, smooth surfaces for my feet. Tile, hardwood, you name it. I’m a little in love with the floors.

One wall of the apartment is exposed brick. Holy Guacamole, my friends. I didn’t realize how beautiful a feature exposed brick is until I stepped into this apartment. Maybe I got too used to Ypsilanti apartments where everything is white and falling apart. This is gorgeous. Everything’s red brick and light wood and the other walls are a soft gray. All the time I spent moving in I kept thinking that the apartment should be the set of a TV show. Like, it was almost eerie and uncomfortable how fancy it looked to me, but I’ve settled in now.


I have about eighteen outlets, which is about ten more than my last apartment, but for a smaller space. I can literally plug my laptop in wherever I want to be in the apartment, which is crucial. I just paid my first round of bills, and I’m not utterly broke, so that’s cool. I’ve moved three times in a twelve month period, and I’m ready to stay here for the foreseeable future. I loathe moving my shit around. Blergh.

The neighbors are mostly quiet. Even when they make noise, they aren’t loud. I have to reacclimate myself to the idea that people walk around in their apartments. Instinctively, I want to be angry, but also, I can listen to whatever I want to cancel out their noise. There was the curious instance in the middle of the night. My deduction skills have led me to believe that my bathroom wall is the same as my neighbors’ bedroom wall. Super cool, no problem right? Ehhh. I was going to the bathroom one night and heard some lackluster squeaky, a woman who wouldn’t stop talking (and it was more nagging than sexy talk), and overall it came off as really uninspiring sex. I couldn’t even be righteously angry at my neighbors for having sex because it didn’t even sound enjoyable for them. But, if that’s the worst of it, I’ll take it… like more of a champ than she was. Too soon? He was. AH! I can’t stop.


The best part though is not having anyone I’m held accountable. With roommates, there’s this constant weight of where are they? Are they home? What ae they doing in their room? Am I annoying them by what I’m doing? When are they going to enter my space? What’s theirs? What’s mine? I’ve had great roommates. I’ve been super lucky in the roommate realm. I know people have had real shit experiences. Still, it’s so incredibly more relaxing to be in my apartment and know that it’s all mine and nothing is going to interrupt what I’m doing. I can completely shut off that part of my brain that’s always too concerned about what the people around me are thinking, feeling, and doing. I can just exist any way I want to without guilt or shame. Honestly, in an absolutely non jokey way, no guilt or shame. This more than anything is what I needed in my life.

That’s the most of it. I, of course, don’t ever want to talk to random people long enough to really go into this. I’m also too jazzed on my own anxiety to get these thoughts out even remotely coherently. I’m aware that my blog posts strongly lean towards stream of consciousness than good writing, but my verbal skills are way worse. So, this is what you get; the core definition of the answer “it’s good” whenever someone asks me if I like my new apartment in a slightly shady, unread blog post.



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