It is tiny. It's not much bigger than the bedroom I live in now, except it has a (miniscule) kitchen and bathroom attached. The bathroom isn't too bad, but the kitchen is so small I wouldn't be able to have the oven and the refrigerator open at the same time. Not that I would need to.
The good news:
a) It's private and mine, fuckers.
b) It's not going to cost much each month.
c) It won't cost much to heat.
d) There is a pantry and attic space.
e) It's in a little secluded neighborhood.
f) It is across the street from a grocery (sort of).
g) The landlord recognized me and seemed happy.
h) I will pretend I'm on a writer's retreat.
The bad news:
a) I just realized there is no closet.
b) The kitchen might be too small for a toaster and microwave. Or a microwave and coffee pot.
c) There will be nothing between me sleeping and and someone busting down my door.
d) There is no room for a couch.
e) There is no room for a table.
I don't care about all of those bad things. It will be an improvement over my life as it is. Today, when I came home from visiting the apartment complex, my nephew asked my mother to pay his girlfriend back the $25 we overused with her food stamps. Let me make this clear: she didn't pay us any money out of her paycheck because she doesn't think it's fair that if she doesn't eat much of our food that she should have to pay us any money. I explained to her that if she had her own apartment, she wouldn't be eating her landlord's food but she would still have to pay her landlord rent, and so in this scenario we are the effing landlords. She pretended to agree then refused to pay on her next paycheck. So we overused her food stamps. Sorry, bitch.
I shopped online for portable closets. If I get this studio apartment, I will just buy one of the sturdy little closets I saw and weave it into the narrative.
September 8, 2011
Studio
I'm leaving in a few minutes to see a new apartment. It's a studio. I actually love that word, for all of its private, artistic meanings. I'm super excited. More later.
September 5, 2011
Movin' On Up
To the west side. Which here in my little town is movin' up. You definitely wouldn't want to move to the east side. As Billy Joel (in Anthony's Song) would say, "Mama if that's movin' up then I'm...moving out!"
I haven't really gotten an apartment yet. I've talked to a dude named Corey and I'm supposed to call him this week and talk about openings in the complex he manages. It has studios for $410 a month and one-bedrooms for $440 or so. It's on a sleepy little backroad behind a grocery store. There are plants and hanging lanterns and little garden plots and it's adorable. And far enough away for now.
Today, I gave my mother ten dollars because she was on her way to the grocery store (the very one I might get to live behind) and told her to get me ham, cheese, bread, mustard, and chips so I could make sandwiches to take to lunch with me when I go to work. My sister was going with her, and got extremely upset because I would be hoarding these ingredients in my private fridge in my padlocked bedroom. She was mad I spent ten dollars on myself for lunch for the next few days. What if other people want some ham and cheese? Fuck 'em, is what I say. If I leave ham downstairs for anyone to eat willy-nilly it will be gone by tomorrow morning. Because I'm a prisoner with no car, my only three options for food while I'm at work are Subway, a Chinese restaurant, or a Family Dollar kind of store. Chinese and Subway are too expensive and the food at the Family Dollar is all the most disgusting knock-off food that no other store would dare allow through its doors. So, ten dollars for the next seven or so lunches? I wouldn't be spending that money on food for my family if I was buying a six dollar meal deal at Subway, so why should I spend it on them in this capacity, either?
I can't wait to have a refrigerator of my own. The little one in my bedroom can only hold so much, and once I get a few half-gallons of juice in there I can really only fit about three-five other foodstuffs in it. The freezer doesn't freeze anything. A bottle of soy sauce spilled about a year ago and stained the bottom half of the fridge.
I make about $800 a month. Usually. Sometimes less. Am I worried about being strapped for cash? Yes. At this point am I going to let that stop me anymore? No. I figure, if I can get a studio for $410:
Electric: what, $75 or less a month?
Phone: my cell phone bill is $45 a month
Water: $20 or less a month for just me?
School loans: $45 a month
credit: $20 because I only have one account
Total there: $205 plus rent = $615
I won't have a car payment or insurance payment because, in an apology for ruining my car that I payed for, my parents are paying for my next car, which they will be getting this week. They will put said car on their insurance. This leaves me with an average of $185 a month for food, gas, and miscellaneous items (every three months I also have a life insurance payment). That's...not really enough...but it will have to do. Maybe when I'm happier about life in general I'll be happy to get a second job.
Here's a glimpse at my psychology: I hate coming home. It depresses me to no end. Walking into this house is like walking into a vacuum bubble where you scream and scream and no one can hear you because, rather than there being no air and so no sound, there is so much screaming that you just get lost in the void of everyone else's screams. People have asked me why I don't get a second job or go for a walk - it's because the thought of having to return is worse than the thought of leaving. Like how people go to Vegas and don't gamble because, to them, the thought of losing $100 is worse than winning a million. The thought of returning every night to the screaming and cussing, the violence, the sex and drugs, breaks me down little by little and I drop away, like breadcrumbs, and when I look back the animals are eating the crumbs and I will never find my way again.
Even if I struggle to have enough money in that little studio apartment, it will be a place to return home. If I go to the library I will have a home to bring those books back to. This place, this complex of walls I live in now, isn't a home. It's an animal shelter.
I haven't really gotten an apartment yet. I've talked to a dude named Corey and I'm supposed to call him this week and talk about openings in the complex he manages. It has studios for $410 a month and one-bedrooms for $440 or so. It's on a sleepy little backroad behind a grocery store. There are plants and hanging lanterns and little garden plots and it's adorable. And far enough away for now.
Today, I gave my mother ten dollars because she was on her way to the grocery store (the very one I might get to live behind) and told her to get me ham, cheese, bread, mustard, and chips so I could make sandwiches to take to lunch with me when I go to work. My sister was going with her, and got extremely upset because I would be hoarding these ingredients in my private fridge in my padlocked bedroom. She was mad I spent ten dollars on myself for lunch for the next few days. What if other people want some ham and cheese? Fuck 'em, is what I say. If I leave ham downstairs for anyone to eat willy-nilly it will be gone by tomorrow morning. Because I'm a prisoner with no car, my only three options for food while I'm at work are Subway, a Chinese restaurant, or a Family Dollar kind of store. Chinese and Subway are too expensive and the food at the Family Dollar is all the most disgusting knock-off food that no other store would dare allow through its doors. So, ten dollars for the next seven or so lunches? I wouldn't be spending that money on food for my family if I was buying a six dollar meal deal at Subway, so why should I spend it on them in this capacity, either?
I can't wait to have a refrigerator of my own. The little one in my bedroom can only hold so much, and once I get a few half-gallons of juice in there I can really only fit about three-five other foodstuffs in it. The freezer doesn't freeze anything. A bottle of soy sauce spilled about a year ago and stained the bottom half of the fridge.
I make about $800 a month. Usually. Sometimes less. Am I worried about being strapped for cash? Yes. At this point am I going to let that stop me anymore? No. I figure, if I can get a studio for $410:
Electric: what, $75 or less a month?
Phone: my cell phone bill is $45 a month
Water: $20 or less a month for just me?
School loans: $45 a month
credit: $20 because I only have one account
Total there: $205 plus rent = $615
I won't have a car payment or insurance payment because, in an apology for ruining my car that I payed for, my parents are paying for my next car, which they will be getting this week. They will put said car on their insurance. This leaves me with an average of $185 a month for food, gas, and miscellaneous items (every three months I also have a life insurance payment). That's...not really enough...but it will have to do. Maybe when I'm happier about life in general I'll be happy to get a second job.
Here's a glimpse at my psychology: I hate coming home. It depresses me to no end. Walking into this house is like walking into a vacuum bubble where you scream and scream and no one can hear you because, rather than there being no air and so no sound, there is so much screaming that you just get lost in the void of everyone else's screams. People have asked me why I don't get a second job or go for a walk - it's because the thought of having to return is worse than the thought of leaving. Like how people go to Vegas and don't gamble because, to them, the thought of losing $100 is worse than winning a million. The thought of returning every night to the screaming and cussing, the violence, the sex and drugs, breaks me down little by little and I drop away, like breadcrumbs, and when I look back the animals are eating the crumbs and I will never find my way again.
Even if I struggle to have enough money in that little studio apartment, it will be a place to return home. If I go to the library I will have a home to bring those books back to. This place, this complex of walls I live in now, isn't a home. It's an animal shelter.
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