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How Many Rod Stewart Songs Does it Take to Get There?

Lately, Becca and I have been measuring time and distance by the number of Rod Stewart songs it takes to get anywhere.

From her apartment to Adobe Cafe is approximately one "Young Turks."

From my place to her apartment is three "Do Ya Thank I'm Sexy's."

Grammatically, this is hard to pluralize.


Any time I look for an apartment, I usually download three or four apps and search for a place in which the prospect of house arrest doesn't seem daunting.

Anyway, I live in a studio apartment now. It's a testament to the horror vacui that's been accompanying me this whole time. I think that's why I'm starting to gravitate to near-grays and other neutral-tone elements now. There's something vast, yet restorative, at least for me -- colors that emulate the texture of cashmere. or a cup of matcha.

I like to think 9-year old would be impressed with this space. He was pretty short, so this would be fucking expansive to his bowl-headed noggin.

The apartment was on Craigslist. Or Zumper. Any time I look for apartments, I usually download three or four apps and search for the place in which the prospect of house arrest doesn't seem daunting.

Two-ish months of walk-throughs and the requisite ooh-ing and ahh-ing at tiles that used to be white, I saw this place. The platonic ideal of a small dwelling. The only real downside is the twin bed thing. Yes. I'm a 28-year old with a twin bed. Then again, when did everyone everywhere get that impetus to take up the bodily personal space of a whole California King? Least of all when they're usually not awake to enjoy it? That's me rationalizing a twin-size mattress.

Back to this place -- It's a box. Or at least, the main vestige of it is. Two, nearly floor-length windows flanking the lopsided "tansu" cobbled together from Stacey's mom's old jewelry case, a mid-century side table from Jinxed, and that shelf I made in eighth grade wood shop. (We were asked to grade ourselves. I gave myself a B+. I have so much self esteem.)

For a while, I lived without the rack of clothing. This period of time felt off, somehow. I missed that meditative motion of spacing garments on a rack almost as much as I liked seeing a gradient of vast and restorative gray objects (garments.)

The plants took just one car ride from West Philadelphia to Fishtown. I buckled them up like so many wild-haired, dirt-laden children who were watered twice weekly. I had doubts about the lighting but it hasn't been too bad so far.

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