An ode to the apartment I hated

I have never felt more at peace in this apartment than I do right now. The bathroom is almost cleaned out, it just needs a scrub down. My hippie friends are picking up all the kitchen shit tomorrow so they can cook their happy vegan food. John is picking up the remaining furniture in a few days and my dad or brother, whoever I can guilt the easiest, is picking up the stuff that is off into storage at my parent’s house. The rest of my shit is being sold or thrown out in the next few days as well. If I play all of my cards right, I’ll be sleeping on the floor of an empty apartment by Thursday afternoon.

And it isn’t because I am strapped for cash and need to raise funds to pay for food, skim lattes and pubic hair waxing. I actually enjoy living as sparse as possible. Being a naturally messy person, the only fool proof way of me being able to keep anything clean is to have as little shit as possible. Some would say that it prevents me from being sentimental, and yes, I probably don’t have that beautifully written card that you sent me three years ago, but I could also pack up my belongings within three hours if need be. And knowing my history with moving, three-four addresses a year for the last seven years, it means a lot to me than the Hallmark card. Sorry.

To be perfectly honest, I love moving. There is nothing more soul satisfying than taking mess and clutter and throwing out 90% of crap so all that remains are two suitcases and a box, and the echo of an empty room. I love the idea that all of this crap that ties me to this place disappears and I have my freedom. Because, quoting Fight Club, after a while your stuff begins to own you.

Getting rid of 75% of my wardrobe, selling off all of my furniture, and cleaning the apartment out of anything that said I lived here is therapeutic. It means that I get a clean break from the mess of a year I’ve had and instead have a clean slate to begin anew. The fact that I am getting rid of a lot of my shit from college has a lot of significance—by holding onto that stuff of the ratty sweatshirts, the dumb t-shirts, the old CDs, I was trying to hold onto a naiveté and delay this idea of “growing up”. And much like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I woke up somewhere between a funeral and finding out my acceptance to grad school that I’ve already been there all along this crazy journey of heartache, shitty job, friendships changing, crappy roommate and of course the over priced cursed apartment.

So, out with the ill-fitting clothes, the books that I’ve read but not really liked, a computer that I’ve had sitting around for three years because within the next few months I’m rebuilding. I want to take full advantage of the fact that I will be able to reinvent myself into the person that has been underneath all of this self-doubt, worried over the “supposed to-s”, trying to be like this ideal of “should”.

And all of this starts with me sleeping on the floor of the bedroom that is no longer mine on July 31. How fucking cool is that?