People that don’t pay rent, and why we suck so much.
When people hear that I don’t pay rent, they can’t help but think “You’re a piece of shit.” And I think right back at them, “I know.”
I live in upper middle class utopia. It’s gated with a guard on duty 24 hours a day. It’s a cul-de-sac with an overrun tennis court that people use to play fetch with their dogs in a contained, idiot proof space. It’s right off the 18th hole of (arguably) the second nicest country club in the city. I’m 23 and have one semester left of a five and a half year plan. I’m living the baby boomer dream while dreaming about Lunchables and Kool Aid Bursts.
I blame it on my parents, really, because they’re letting me live rent free in their garage apartment until I graduate from college. It’s sweet. They love me. They care. They gave me a curfew. Do you feel better, yet?
And while I might not pay for rent or utilities, I do pay for the necessities.
Let me paint a picture for you.
I’m in school full time. Migrant working the border between part and full time at a job that I actually really enjoy but isn’t paying in the double digits yet. I don’t really drink, but my addiction to deviled eggs topped with fried oysters should be featured on TLC. $11.50 for four deviled egg halves. That’s two eggs. That’s grand larceny.
I should still have a disposable income though, right?
My speeding ticket collection rivals my pokémon cards. My 33-in-a-30 is a Pikachu. Interesting, but who cares. My 97-in-a-65-but-was-actually-driving-112 is a holographic Vaporeon. I’m a child of the 90s, sue me.
Please don’t, I’m in poverty.
If I wasn’t the demon spawn of my landlords, I’d be paying upwards of $1500 for 200 square feet. If you think that sounds obscene, it’s because no shit, it is. Location, location, location.
And while I love where I live, I don’t exactly love where I live, if you catch my drift. I live in AARP Nation. Everyone wakes up too early and drives too slow. People like to garden and drive their Teslas around the cul-de-sac and not anywhere else. I’m the youngest resident. The second youngest is 52. And is my mother.
Now before you think “oh, this brat lives in a cushy little (seriously, emphasis on little, 200sqft isn’t an exaggeration) bachelorette pad in Porsche kingdom”, let’s go into how delightful my living arrangements actually are.
I don’t have a kitchen. I have a stovetop that my cat uses to scratch the places she can’t reach, because she’s a 15 pound drain on my resources.
My sink is about 8 inches across and the water pressure indiscriminately varies from runny nose to Niagara Falls.
You know how Carrie Bradshaw keeps sweaters in her oven on Sex and the City? I wish I had that much closet space.
My floor is maple hardwood. Maple hardwood patterned linoleum.
The staircase leading up to my high rise penthouse used to have carpet, until we ripped it off because it smelled like wet dog. Now it’s bare, splintered, and smells like decaying armadillo. We can’t figure out where the smell is coming from. I febreeze daily.
Febreeze isn’t helping.
I don’t pay rent, I have no credit.
I have no credit, so no one will give me a credit card.
I have no credit, so no one will lease me an apartment.
I’m stuck here.
And the thing is is that when you look at all the things that suck so terribly about living in a cube smaller than my freshman year dorm room, it’s just standard crappy apartment pettiness.
But I don’t pay rent. And you do. Suckers.