My First Post-College Apartment: Complete With 3 Dude Roommates

I finally moved out of my parent’s home. Working at CC is my first job and it was about time I got out out of dodge. It’s a big step into “adulthood.” I am twenty-three and about half of my friends have been on their own and paying rent, while the other half whose parents live in the same city as them still live it at home.

I have never had to pay rent or bills so it will certainly be a good thing for me to budget my money and see what it’s like. My parents, my dad especially, did not want to leave. They pulled the whole, “You’re my little girl,” thing. I promptly rolled my eyes and kept moving. I am not going to be living at home until I am thirty years old, unless I absolutely had to, in which case there would be no shame at all.

In NYC rent prices are absurd, so when you get your first job, you usually aren’t looking for a studio or one bedroom because they are too expensive. You’re basically looking to rent a room with a group of people your age in a decent neighborhood for cheap. I ain’t one to front on you guys, I pay $725 a month for an 8×10 foot room in an apartment with three dudes.

I was a little hesitant to move into an apartment with three guys I had never met but they all seem fine. Except I haven’t met one of them who has been categorized as a “hairy Cuban.” The apartment is incredibly hot and by their walking around shirtless in basketball shorts, I presume they will not be putting on heirs for anyone. That’s good because I look like a monster on days when I don’t have to . . . go outside.

OMG I am so quirky like Zooey Deschanel/New Girl‘s Jess. Look at me, I like cute stuff, nobody else on Earth likes stuff that is cute. I am so unique!  Oh no, I’m crying now for no reason! Help! *Sings a tune* Ah, better now.

The shit part of it is that I can’t have my parents over, ever. They would freak out if I were living with a bunch of guys. I am pretty sure my parents think that I have never spoken to a male-gendered person. If they saw that the apartment was a sausage fest, they’d think I was either forcibly kidnapped or having daily orgies. My parents grew up during the times of Studio 54, so they know a thing or two about daily orgies.

Yesterday, my two best friends who may or may not be my best friends because they have a car, drove me to Ikea and helped me move. Dude. I got a bed, a mattress, a computer desk, a table, a computer chair and body pillow for $220.

I put all of that shit together! OK. I still have the table left. But a $17 table is about 4 hours of physical labor with these Ikea products. I am pretty good at assembling things but these have SO MANY pieces. SO MANY.

I felt pretty proud and accomplished after putting that bed and desk together. Is there some kind of secret sex position you unlock for putting together Ikea furniture because that is the only gratifying thing equal in measure to the amount of work I put in.

I am totally scared and excited to be living on my own. Y’all are all invited. I’m baking cookies.

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