ERIN
“Are you sure you don’t want to sublease my apartment?” I ask Sasha, cradling the phone to my ear as I push a couple of boxes into the corner of my apartment. They are filled mostly with clothes or personal effects. As I look at the few boxes I do have, it’s kind of depressing. There’s not much, not that my apartment would allow for me to be a pack rat, but it just goes to show how little I made this place my own. I used to think living in New York was exciting, making it on my own even if I struggled. Having a closet sized apartment was part of paying your dues.
Will I miss listening to Journey on repeat for hours? No.
Will I miss waking up to the sound of the garbage truck every Tuesday morning? No.
Will I miss this shitty little apartment? Maybe.
“I enrolled in UCLA for the fa
