Apartment Angst

Remember way back in December, approximately 7 months ago, when I was all happy about moving into my new place after leaving the Ex's? And then, remember when Sven moved in and I thought it was going to be a positive aspect of the summer?

Well, those days are long gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

I feel a an anti-apartment rant coming on. Here goes:

I am sick to death of having no air-conditioning, of the constant whir of fans, of my body being slick with sweat as I lie half-naked in bed with no covers on trying in vain to fall asleep.

I'm sick of the cramped quarters, of not having a real closet, of my clothes ending up everywhere because they have no place to be, of the tiny beat-up table tucked away in the corner that I use as a "desk" for my computer, of all the unpacked boxes I have crammed under the bathroom counter because they don't fit anywhere else.

I'm sick of the leak in the ceiling that happens every time it rains.

I'm sick of the grimy shower with its falling tiles, the holes that reveal what can only be massive growths of black mold, the way the mold spreads across the floor and forces me to clean it all the time or wear flip-flops like I was taking a shower in a nasty school locker room instead of in my own home, and the 3 x 3 space that makes it nearly impossible and always awkward to shave my legs.

I am sick to death of not having a bath tub. Sick, sick, sick. I miss my Kiss My Face Stress Relief bubble bath. I miss soaking. I miss shaving with my legs stretched out luxuriously over a sea of fluffy foam.

I'm sick of having to cover all the windows for fear that someone could be lurking out on the roof on the other side of the aluminum box that I live in.

I'm sick of having a torture chamber for a basement. I'm sick of being too afraid to throw the garbage away, and I'm so sick of being unable to do laundry unless I walk a block down the street.

I'm sick of the 5-floor walk-up.

I'm sick of the upper east side, of having to walk 12 minutes to the subway every single day, of $16 cab rides home from anywhere decent, of being in an area where my friends rarely want to visit, of not being downtown or on the upper west side or anywhere else in New York where things are much cuter, cooler, and convenient.

I'm completely and utterly sick of subletting. I hate being surrounded by all of these things that are not mine. I'm sick of her coach, her TV holder, her too-small coffee table, her plates and utensils, her paintings. I'm sick of dealing with her every month, and I'm sick to death of the fact that she's charging Rumi and me an extra $500 each month. Bitch.

I'm really, really sick of having a room mate. Rumi was awesome, Sven's not. I'm sick of checking the peephole as I'm unlocking the door to see if there's a light on in the apartment signifying Sven's presence. I'm sick of coming home and finding him making out with random girls on the couch that I used to relax on after a long day at work. I'm sick of his things, his food, and his mess. I'm really sick of him using my pans to cook meat. I'm sick of him watching TV late at night, leaving movies on when he takes a girl into his room to make out with her, and always being here.

I'm sick of things not being neat, not being perfectly clean, and just looking dingy.

Above all else, I'm just sick of not having my own place. I'm sick of not having control, of having to share and be considerate, of not being able to decorate, of being limited in what space I can take up, in not having anything organized the way I want it to be, of having this apartment feel like an aggravation instead of the cute refuge that my home used to feel like to me.

I need a new place.