Dear Apartment,

This letter is just for you. I know I've been neglecting you lately, so consider this my formal acknowledgment of that fact. My aunt used to say, "Don't apologize; just don't do it again." So don't worry, I am heeding her wise advice and I promise to pay more attention to you. Still, I feel like I should say sorry for a couple things.

First off, I'm sorry for dropping so many things down the cracks in the floor. Don't ask me what they were, I'm sure you know better than me. Bobby pins? Cheese rinds? Soy sauce packets? Hair ties? Old gum? The list goes on. I know you're old and crotchety and you're pushing 110 at this point. You were built in 1907 and I'm sure you've seen many, many things.

What was the last owner like? Was her name Madge? Did she own thirteen cats and give them all names starting with the letter 'H?'

Oops, my imagination is getting the better of me. Maybe Henry, Hubert, and Harriet the cats never existed. I have a very vivid mind; it's a blessing and a curse, you see. Anyway, I also want to say sorry on behalf of my best friend who puked all over the nice hardwood floors in October. We tried to get her into the bathroom, but it was just too late. The bartender at Cha Cha's had a little crush on her and the alcohol was flowing very freely that night. I think we managed to get most of the vomit scrubbed off though. White vinegar works wonders.

By the way, do you like the artwork that I put up? I tried to keep it timeless and non-ironic. I hope you're a fan of Frida Kahlo because I just bought a huge print of her and some monkeys hanging out on her shoulders. Maybe you're more of an Impressionism kind of apartment. I'm still getting to know you, after all. I'll do my best to switch it up in the art department.

I should mention that you are a beautiful little flat. I love your mustard walls, your built-in desk, your white radiator with the floral pattern from God knows when, and especially your secret bookcase wedged behind the wall, a remnant from an era long forgotten. I love the panoramic view of the Seattle skyline from my window, and I love the vintage mirror in the bathroom that was here when I moved in.

If you could talk, what would you say?

Would you tell me to be cleaner? Would you advise me against cooking an entire recipe from The New York Times at 10:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night? Maybe you would strongly encourage me to adopt a minimalist wardrobe since there's no freakin' space in here?

Dear apartment, I love you.