Dear Apartment #505,
I want to thank you for giving me a space to live while I've gone through probably the biggest transitional period of my life.
I moved in when I was twenty — a depressing age where you're not a teenager anymore, but still not old enough to buy your own booze, and will be moving out at twenty-two — an age where you should maybe consider getting your shit together, but the situation is not totally dire yet.
I'm going to miss the ugly floral carpeting, the dark lighting that makes you feel like you're in a black hole the second you enter the building, the tiny little doors in every hallway that lead to nowhere, and that weird musty smell. I'll miss the million dollar view, the scary old elevator with the gate, and having the freedom to walk around in my underwear at all times. However, I think our journey together is meant to come to a close; you served your purpose, and I'm ready for something new.
With that being said, please enjoy a recap of my fondest memories of living here, which looks like a cheeky 80's montage in my head:
I tried owning a cat named Frank who only had three legs. Both he and the situation itself were pretty miserable — everyday I'd come home to piles of either his puke, shit or piss. I really couldn't blame him; I'd probably do the same thing if I had abandonment issues (he was a Humane Society kitty) and was trapped in a 400 ft closet for ten hours by myself. The litter box wasn't really my favorite, and neither was Frank waking me up in the middle of the night by meowing loudly in my face. I quickly learned that studio apartments are not meant for animals other than fish, or that maybe I'm just not a good pet owner.
I got my first stick-and-poke tattoo. My old co-worker/friend came over, and we sat on the floor and I drank a whole bottle of rosé while we talked about life stuff as she stuck a needle in my arm for three hours. I love this particular tattoo of mine, because I'll have this sweet little memory on my body forever.
I had my first handful of awkward one-night-stands. (Scandalous, I know.)
I had many drunk dance parties, alone, at eleven o'clock at night. I'm sure my neighbors loved tuning in.
I dyed my hair all by myself for the first time. I don't think it turned out good that time or any of the other times that I did it, but that honestly didn't matter to me.
I made a lot of shitty mac-and-cheese.
I spent a lot of evenings sobbing on the floor.
I was exposed to what unnecessarily loud and gross Furry sex sounds like, thanks to my downstairs neighbors, whom I still have yet to meet but feel like I already know.
I woke up to some of the most beautiful sunrises I've ever seen.
I fell asleep to some of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen.
I felt some of the deepest depression of my life.
I survived Snowmageddon 2019.
I watched a lot of stand-up comedy specials and South Park reruns, which helped me realize that comedy is the one thing I'm actually passionate about and want to do with my life.
A wish of mine came true one night (Think Sixteen Candles, minus a nerd stealing my underwear, questionable rape, or Jake Ryan himself.)