Assessing the Different Kinds of Living Arrangements
An anthropological inquiry.
As I spent the better part of the last month moving into my girlfriend’s apartment, there was a striking uptick of rage-shouting “YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT” and a general attrition of patience that turned our relationship into a diminished bizarro version of itself. With skyrocketing rents, lease renewals are now a game of chicken where you have absolutely no leverage over your landlord, so you have an exceedingly tight window to relocate to another overpriced apartment in a manner that is intelligent, decisive, and with necessary dispatch. Regardless of how well you plan out a move, it always seems to be protracted into 10 times longer than your initial estimations due to unforeseen, yet always familiar, instant boondoggles. This sort of fumbled and improvisational gambit is why we spent a random Monday evening driving across the city to return my bookshelves to an IKEA warehouse to exchange them for floating shelves that we had to bribe our more handy friends to install on a random Wednesday evening.
When I was single, my default assumption about long-term relationships was that splitting rent kept most otherwise dysfunctional couples together, and now that I have nestled into my new home, I have realized this grand bargain is tantalizing and vexing in about equal measure. Just a few days away from my usual guy dumb shit has spun me out a little bit. Remembering to close the shower curtain is daunting enough, but now I am required to lower the toilet seat after I urinate, which is frustrating and perplexing because as a feminist and an ally, I am empowering my strong and independent Queen to arrange her bathroom situation without the help of a man.
Since I have surrendered my independence, a philosophical quagmire has rattled around my diseased and neurotic brain: How could I love someone enough to give up 97% of my bathroom counter space and start fishing baseball-sized gelatinous hairballs out of the shower drain every week? Well, on the one hand, I am the privileged recipient of consistent sex and love, and there is the prospect of children, raising a family, growing old together, and watching the sunsets from rocking chairs on the porch. On the other, I have counter space. Tough call.
Nostalgia for a more freedom-filled past aside, I will not miss the situation I was in when I had a floor to myself in Venice Beach, and there was this teenager who would play Angry Bird on his phone that was plugged into his car stereo, and he would do so in front of my apartment at 1 AM at least once a week. I drifted toward the hands of Evola, Spengler, and Guénon, and I considered chucking ice cubes at his car to see if he would at least park somewhere else; it would be a perfect crime since the evidence would melt away. On an ontological level, this would’ve been an appropriate response.
Anyways, this drastic next step in my relationship has prompted me to analyze the three major types of living arrangements:
With roommates: Roughly half of your dialogue will involve questions like, “Are you sitting on my vape? Can you stand up for a second?” and moral dilemmas like, “Dude, you realize we’re screwed without a bottle opener.” Depending on how spiteful your roommates were, you would make sure to lock your bedroom door before falling asleep because you feared that they would get up in the middle of the night to fart on your face for being slighted (you forgot to take out the trash). Even the obligatory WE PUT WHATEVER WAS IN THE BATHROOM CABINET ON YOUR FACE pranks never got old for some reason. And you will binge so much TV that you never planned to watch. You’ll come home from work, there will be two cowboys on the television, and it’s a show called “Outlaws” that came out on FX 20 years ago—then you end up blowing through seven seasons in 24 hours.
With a significant other: You two will explore different types of intimacy and ask yourself romantic questions like “I’m going to get paper towels, do we need anything else from CVS?” They’ll ignore you because they’re on a Zoom call.
Living by yourself: Scientists say that after five years of living alone, you become increasingly likely to install a fluoride remover for your tap water, and within the following year, you will convert your living room into a prepper bunker. You will find yourself talking out loud, like you’re hosting and guesting a podcast that doesn’t exist, where you air out all your grievances against anyone that has ever wronged you. It’s like one big manic episode with the only consequence being the price of rent. Also, the threat of choking to death on popcorn is very high.
I'm so glad the "roommate era" has been left in the dust for me. I don't think I want to do that ever again.
“How could I love someone enough to give up 97% of my bathroom counter space and start fishing baseball-sized gelatinous hairballs out of the shower drain every week?”
I’m dealing with this without the love. More enraging, but at least it leaves Monte Cristo murder plots on the table.