the move: goodbye hawthorne

As much as I hate moving, the thought of my rent going up $100 a month is just unthinkable on principle alone. So I've decided to pack up shop and move just a few blocks away to an apartment that's smaller, cheaper, but most importantly has a rooftop deck, a hot commodity in the city.

As my move date approaches this weekend, I can't help but feel slightly nostalgic. 596 W. Hawthorne Pl. was my first real adult home that belonged solely to me. So what if the dishwasher didn't work, the bathroom tiles looked like they were about to fall off at any second, the windows occasionally fell inward given just the right gust of wind, and the shower had two temperatures: scalding hot or ice cold. The squeaky floor boards, non-functioning fireplace, and kitchen cabinets and closet doors that refused to stay closed were mine.

Apartment 102 was my refuge after work, my hideout on the weekends. It was where I spent my first Thanksgiving and Christmas away from Buffalo, and witnessed my first and second Chicago Gay Pride Parade from my bedroom window. I can now flawlessly tell any cab driver in Chicago, "Broadway and Hawthorne," without the slightest drunken slur. I've capped off many evenings dancing around this living room and getting just a little too friendly with the marble lion statues on either side of the main entrance. My mornings will no longer be greeted by Nick, the 50-something Eastern European maintenance man, who without fail met me with, "Good morning beautiful girl," even on my not-so-beautiful days. Nick, you stole my heart.

As silly as it seems, it saddens me to say goodbye. You've been a front row audience to my first year on my own. Although far from perfect, you were constant.

Thank you for letting me prove to myself that I can in fact make it on my own. I will miss you. Strange that I only realize this now that I'm leaving you.