I live in an apartment in Huntington. At a glance, it looks sufficient. It’s spacious, there is a gas range stove, elevators that move you from a floor to the next, and windows that both open and close. At the end of a 40-minute commute, you can hit the cramped gym and get an evening view of the National Harbor.
There’s one problem. It’s awful. Everyone has an awful apartment at some point in their lives. Perhaps it’s awful because your roommate thinks that the refrigerator doubles as a trash receptacle. Maybe it’s so small, that you prepare small meals next to where your shower. In our case, it’s like Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell — each hosting a new variant of torment. A new level of dysfunction sets in every two weeks almost religiously; most of which are a mite too embarrassing to document here.
As nylon pantyhose dries on the lamp beside me, I feel as though I’m in living in a 1930s dumbbell tenement. I’m not a picky soul. I just crave consistency — something that constantly evades me.
I think the frustrating thing about my gripes at this point is that it falls squarely into a crusty, dated city-dweller meme. The city is played out, but unavoidable.