I’m Becoming A Squatter And Never Moving Again

I’m Becoming A Squatter And Never Moving Again

I will literally give my first born child to never have to deal with U-Haul from this point forward. After moving every year for the past five years, I’d like to formally announce my decision to never move again. I apologize in advance to any future tenants who will have to drag my cold, lifeless body out of this current apartment if they intend to live here. I, for one, am never lifting another mattress, couch, coffee table, or potted palm as long as I breathe.

Five years ago, I was a naïve little freshie overjoyed with the prospect of living on my own. With the help of mommy, daddy, and the same turquoise Target bedding that everyone else had, this was by far my easiest move. I fully blame pre-furnished rooms and that only slightly unreliable elevator for my unrealistic moving expectations. Since my campus does not have sorority housing thanks to some “brothel” law that no one can actually prove exists, I moved into a pre-furnished upperclassmen housing. Unfortunately, the following year they turned this into housing for the Global Studies students. This was the first of many instances when I would regret becoming an art major.

Junior year a sister and I moved into a cute, albeit tiny, apartment. The only flaw was an awful winding staircase we couldn’t even bribe our then-boyfriends to help us move furniture up. The place was so cute, in fact, that a fraternity I won’t name (but that I still harbor an irrational grudge against) decided to buy the whole building and use it as housing. (Yes, frats can have campus housing but sororities can’t at my school. Because equality.) Senior year, a bunch of us, ironically, moved into a former frat house. The ridiculously cheap rent made us somewhat overlook the leaking roof, mysterious stains, sinks propped up by two-by-fours, and a particularly shitty landlord. There were no closets, virtually no insulation, and the front staircase was missing so many white banister posts it looked like it’d gotten into a bar fight and had half its teeth knocked out.

Of course, with each new move comes the annual bribe-some-ripped-guy-to-lift-all-the-heavy-shit-because-all-my-friends-are-skinny-bitches. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find muscular guys in the Hipster Heartland? I’m sorry but tattoos, flannel, and organic soy whatever just isn’t going to get my couch up three flights of stairs. It’s just not. With each new move comes my annual regret of skipping arm day all three times I’ve set foot inside a gym. A new move means playing Russian roommate roulette all over again. It means storage units, couch surfing, and drowning in packing peanuts. It means spending money on all new furniture because for whatever reason, you couldn’t or didn’t take the old stuff with you. Thankfully the landlord’s son wanted to live there this year, thus keeping our moving tradition alive and well.

After this most recent move into a seemingly normal apartment, I’m officially retiring from moving. I’d like to thank everyone and everything that led to this decision. Firstly, I’d like to thank all my former housing facilities for forcing me either directly or indirectly to move. I’d like to thank all the horrible roommates for keeping my life interesting these last several years (especially Brit Brit and her cat for bringing fleas into the house). Last but not least, an extra special thank you goes to Uhaul for always screwing up my truck/storage unit reservations. You’re all the real MVPs. So until I can replace all my current biddies with professional body builders, you know where to find me.

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Snarky Srat

My hobbies and interests include everything that won't make me money. Now accepting rich husband applications.

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