your first and only studio apartment. $500/mo, which feels steep at the time. (hah)
it has beautiful moulding covered with decades of thick white paint.
take your shoes off at the door, please.
trader joes saag paneer, string cheese, soy sauce, eggs, spinach (if you're lucky)
an incredible number of mismatching mugs.
you never intentionally acquire them and yet they multiply.
a terrible little craigslist couch pointed at the window.
it's a loveseat, really.
the bay window is what made you fall in love with the space.
you never put up shades.
it grows enough to make pesto one (1) time.
you mince it with a knife because you don't have a blender.
never bears fruit, but grows tall and lovely
you still have it.
it's has many propogations that live in the homes of your friends.
you live on a street peppered with bars below.
sometimes people scream and you rush to the window, but they're just drunk.
your car window is shattered once, but they only steal your CD collection.
they leave angry orchard cider bottles in the back seat, which offends you.
the city works its charms on you anyway.
a heavy-ass ikea fold out table that you later move to 4 nyc apartments.
two matching fold out chairs on either side.
those are still around.
your home within a home.
scissors, ink nibs, nib holders, bone folder, charcoal, brushes, brush pens, white out, gel pens, screw driver, mechanical pencils, exacto knife, rulers, highlighters, eraser, kneaded erasers, lead, prismacolor markers, micron pens, four-color pen, nails, hammer, nail cutter, nail file, tweezers, sand paper
where the hell is the BIC pen
inherited from your favorite cousin.
you learn how to draw and paint on a screen.
the trustiest tool you know. it endures nearly two decades of abuse.
printed readings, letters from friends, employee onboarding docs.
life drawings and anime drawings
master studies and anime drawings
emo comics and anime drawings
watercolor still lives and anime drawings
mortifying diary entries and anime drawings
t-shirts, sweaters, dresses. (you still wear dresses)
an ill-advised mini vest that makes you feel vaguely like han solo.
the bathtub is a strange orange-pink hue.
a full. it's too soft.
you spend lots of time staring at the ceiling fan.
a sweet, important relationship ends here.
the bed moves with you out of baltimore and for many years after.
when your next important relationship blossoms you won't need it anymore.
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