I will redecorate. Hey guys! I’m here with all my stuff! Sorry to dump four lumpy futons in the living room, but I already filled the dumpsters outside my old place and the Salvation Army gently rejected my herd of love seats. I’m sure it’s nothing a few homemade slipcovers can’t fix. I know this poster for my cousin’s rap group is a little on the obscene side, but if I can hang in the bathroom, I might feel a little better about my cousin’s near-death shanking in an Iowa drunk tank three weeks ago. Have you guys ever thought about, like, using green light bulbs instead of white? I hear it cuts back on utility costs and it’d look soooooooo sweet.
I will fail to understand important apartment quirks. Every place is different. Maybe the hot water comes out brown, the door falls off its hinges if not delicately sealed shut, whatever. I don’t know that when you turn the oven to 425, it will heat to 625. I’ll try to valiantly jump right in to fix the clogged bathroom sink the first time you leave me alone in the place, but will end up creating an evil swamp of hair and mold in the middle of your favorite bathroom mat. Just hope I figure this shit out before our quaint home floods, burns, or blows up.
I will forget not everything belongs solely to me. There’s going to be a time, probably in the first day or two after I move in, when I’ll find myself with a piping s’mores Pop Tart and no milk. But look at that! A glistening gallon of 1% in the fridge door! How could I have forgotten I stocked up on that? Three Pop Tarts and a week’s worth of calcium later I’ll panic, realizing that was Heidi’s milk, she eats cereal for breakfast, and she’s getting up in 20 minutes.
I will be naked. When I lived by myself, clothes were an unnecessary hassle. I’m so used to everyday exposure that I might forget that most apartment complexes are not nudist colonies. At first I’ll try to be covert about my nakedness by dashing across the hall from bedroom to bathroom or by tiptoeing into the living room in my Eric Cartman panties, trying to find my computer charger without enduring the hassle of putting on a T-shirt. Eventually, though, you’ll discover me unashamedly standing in the buff in the kitchen at 2 p.m., probably eating a Pop Tart dipped in your milk.
I will create new smells. During the interview for the apartment, I may have failed to disclose the fact that I was raised by a man who spent most evenings cooking vats of curry, kale, and saurkraut. I’ve inherited his sense of kitchentime adventure, so I’m sorry in advance for that crab bake and for clogging your juice maker with homemade hummus. I also occasionally smoke, and when I do I’ll attempt to cover the smell by dousing myself in a thick cloud of Febreeze, not realizing this will backfire and create a “hobo chain-smoking under a Turkish waterfall next to a line of fresh laundry” aroma throughout the entire apartment.