James R. Gapinski
The Evolution of Apartments
328 square foot studio, all utilities included. Live on a futon. Noodles from dehydrated packets. Take cold showers. Make a zine. Burn something. Say something profound and jot it in a notebook so that years from now you can realize how pretentious and naïve you once were.
410 square foot one-bedroom in an old house, shared and quartered into rickety units. Live at your desk. Microwave vegetarian burritos. Get an outdoor cat. Think about grad school. Hallucinate miniature sharks pouring from the bathroom sink. Rip out the plumbing and forfeit your security deposit.
804 square foot two-bedroom in a swanky high-rise, priced beyond your comfort zone. Live off credit cards. Read a cookbook and make dinners from scratch. Get an indoor cat. Fall in something other than love. Learn that you should’ve been seeing a chiropractor for years. Drink olive oil straight from the bottle.
726 square foot one-bedroom billed as a “rent-to-own” property, though several loopholes in the lease easily void the agreement. Live in the walk-in closet and go through old boxes and read your pretentious notebook. Eat out. Get a dog. Think about engagement rings. Go to the gym. Self-publish a novel. Reconnect with Mom after Dad dies.
774 square foot one-bedroom. Live in this apartment until you die or get priced-out or both. Order in. Take up fishing but suck at it. Think about having kids. Paint the walls bright orange. Reread the classics and realize that you hate classics. Buy eggs at the farmers market and throw them at a passing train. Tape off exactly 328 square feet and buy a futon.
410 square foot one-bedroom in an old house, shared and quartered into rickety units. Live at your desk. Microwave vegetarian burritos. Get an outdoor cat. Think about grad school. Hallucinate miniature sharks pouring from the bathroom sink. Rip out the plumbing and forfeit your security deposit.
804 square foot two-bedroom in a swanky high-rise, priced beyond your comfort zone. Live off credit cards. Read a cookbook and make dinners from scratch. Get an indoor cat. Fall in something other than love. Learn that you should’ve been seeing a chiropractor for years. Drink olive oil straight from the bottle.
726 square foot one-bedroom billed as a “rent-to-own” property, though several loopholes in the lease easily void the agreement. Live in the walk-in closet and go through old boxes and read your pretentious notebook. Eat out. Get a dog. Think about engagement rings. Go to the gym. Self-publish a novel. Reconnect with Mom after Dad dies.
774 square foot one-bedroom. Live in this apartment until you die or get priced-out or both. Order in. Take up fishing but suck at it. Think about having kids. Paint the walls bright orange. Reread the classics and realize that you hate classics. Buy eggs at the farmers market and throw them at a passing train. Tape off exactly 328 square feet and buy a futon.