Right now, my roommate Jillian and I are what you would call “house poor.” We have a lovely apartment in a great neighborhood, but have spent all of our money on rent and Chipotle burrito bowls, so things are pretty sparse in the way of furniture and decor.
Everything is beige and the walls are bare. My living quarters especially look like a child’s hospice room. Like, there’s a bright quilt on the bed to brighten things up a bit and a sad little plant on the window sill, but no pictures hanging on the wall because let’s just say it’s not worth putting them up since they’ll be coming right back down when the next kid moves in.
We were starting to go crazy in here, which I guess is what happens when your apartment looks like a sterile mental institution, so we decided to sass things up a bit with a chevron accent wall:
At least I’m really self-aware and know I’m being conceited. And at least I know that calling yourself self-aware might be a good indication that you are not. Which makes me aware that I’m not aware. A real catch-22. That’s what that word means, right?
That’s my sewing machine in the white box in the corner. To save money, I bought a bunch of fabric so I could make some curtains and pillows, but when I sat down to do it, the thing wouldn’t work. I took her in to the sewing machine hospital, and I’m sure once I factor in the cost of the repair+fabric it would be the same price just to buy some curtains and pillows from Target. But I’m in too deep now, and I really have my heart set on smugly telling dinner party guests that I reverse Maria Von Trapped our curtains.
