It was noisy and the floors always left my feet dirty and black on the bottom. The dishes were never done and our trash was always stacked full. There was glass from broken beer bottles wherever you stepped and there was mud in the swimming pool. It was perfectly imperfect and I liked it that way. It was a story. It was my story. It was a completely suitable place for a 20-year-old.
I would wake up in the middle of the night to a vibrating ceiling, from the person on the floor above me who left their phone on the ground to charge. There were dance parties on the floor below us. Then we would host dance parties and the floor below would get mad by banging their fists on our ceiling. Our apartment never failed to smell like weed thanks to the crew on the floor above us. The smell would come slowly through our vents, into our bedsheets and then into our showers. The odor became somewhat normal. It was familiar, expected.
Room 322 was different. I was in a relationship with it.
Room 322 holds my secrets, the tears on my pillow, my bad attitudes, my inability to throw out expired milk, and my favorite, alone time. There’s two characters to this story: room 322 and I. Together, we go hand in hand. I started off loving 322, then I hated 322 and everything that happened there, then I loved it again. It’s the space where I got most of my writing done. It’s my creativity, my imagination, and where my passions were born. It’s the place where my friends and I meet up before we go out, it’s the place where I host pancake breakfasts and “Girls” marathons. It’s home.
For the past month I’ve spent time at 322 completely alone. I’ve written a lot, cooked some, and reflected on my time there. There’s been roommate changes, decorative changes, relationship changes, food changes (vegan to pescatarian, to neither), to everything in between. 322 is the place I find myself running off to. There’s really no place I’d rather wake up.
322 is not the best place to live and I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s like a constant spring break condo. But it’s suitable for me. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, but 322 was mostly just times.
* This story was written at Avenue Coffee at 786 Echles Street. I ordered an iced coffee and wrote the story outside. Go check them out. Their pour overs coffees are great too.*