The Champagne Life on a DIY Budget Since 2007

Letter to a Tiny Apartment

pop culture penpal giulia rozzi

Dear Tiny Apartment,

Wow, they weren’t kidding when they called you “cozy” in that Craigslist ad. Personally I would have used some other “c” words to describe you, like cramped, claustrophobic, and crappy. But, I guess some people would consider an apartment that physically can’t hold more than four people at a time, well, cozy. I suppose rubbing up on one another as you try to make your way from the sofa to the bathroom is cozy-ish.

I knew when I moved to New York that I’d have to sacrifice things like a backyard and a dining room, but I had no idea I’d have to sacrifice my sanity. One closet in the whole damn apartment? One? As in uno, single, solo small storage space in which to hang my clothing and the clothing of whomever I am living with? Clearly, you haven’t heard about my love of $10 clearance dresses and ironic tee shirts. Maybe I’ll just hang my frocks on the walls and turn my 10-foot by 14-foot living room / office / storage area / guest room / coffin into a wacky art installation. At least my clothes can cover the holes in the walls, which I’m hoping were made my nails and not those cockroaches I heard like to roam about town.

Roaches don’t dig holes, do they? What? What are you pointing at? Oh! You’re pointing at a roach over there by the sink. So roaches don’t dig holes they just live in holes behind my kitchen counter. Super!

Gosh, you’re dark. Silly me, thinking that windows equate sunlight. I should have known that your windows would face a brick wall, making the only light around here the light from this halogen lamp which will surely set this place on fire one day, and the light from Channel One on the TV replaying today’s news over and over and over again just isn’t very, well, illuminating. I’d love to get us cable, but renting you is draining my bank account and any leftover money has to go towards Swiffer replacements.  For such a small place, you sure do collect shockingly large hordes of dust bunnies.

I like that you call this part of you a “kitchen.” I see a stove, a sink, and a fridge, but not a sliver of counter space or space for a table. So, should I just hold the cutting board in one hand and chop veggies with the other? That seems a bit dangerous, don’t you think?

What do I need to cook for, anyhoo? It’s not like I can have a dinner party in you! Unless of course we ate dinner in my bed, horizontally, so I can stack like seven friends on top of each other. But I think that might turn into a whole other kind of party…

I know I could free up some room here by getting a Murphy bed. Or a fold-up table. Or, how about bunk beds? Bunk beds at age 30 doesn’t scream failure at all, now does it? It more whimpers it, into a pillow, late at night while it’s crying itself to sleep.

I guess I’ll just keep reading fab articles in chic style magazines about kitschy ways to “make your tiny apartment bigger,” sadly avoiding the fact that the only real way to make you bigger would be to move.

Love Always,



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