I never think about you. But you certainly think about me. On those warm, restless nights of summer, marked by furtive glances and sticky fumblings, I consume your every thought. As you trace lines of sweat from your sternum to your navel with trembling fingers, it is my own sunlit caverns you imagine. And at that breathy moment when the pleasure shudders violently from your body, it is my name that crosses your lips in a pleading whisper. I am 400 additional square feet of a Bay Area apartment, and you want me so bad.
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You thought you’d be fine without ever having me. You figured 600 square feet is plenty for two adults and a baby. “It’s worth it to live at the epicenter of such a rich cultural zeitgeist,” you said arrogantly. But you’ve been trapped inside for months. The baby is practically a small child, and you’re feeling a little more frustrated.
So when your partner goes into that telephone booth you call a bathroom, you rush to open the incognito browser window on your laptop. Then it’s straight to Zillow to ogle all of my forbidden spaces. Yeah, you like the photos. Who wouldn’t? I look pretty bangable through a wide-angle lens. But what you’re really after is the 3D virtual tour. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to that which you desire most — being inside me.
But look, you and I both know you can’t afford me. I’m $5 per square foot and will straight up double your monthly rent. You see, I’m a fancy bitch with expensive tastes. I’ve had my earthquake retrofit and a full remodel. You wouldn’t even know what to do with me if you had me. Sure, you have sad little fantasies like, “give the baby a bath without your head being two inches from your husband’s ass as he brushes his teeth.” But that’s way too vanilla to ever fulfill my needs.
Do you know what Mark Zuckerberg does with me? I’m a garage with a car turntable. Or Larry Ellison? I’m the 2006 vintage Barolo section of his wine cellar. I’m the marble exotic bird aviary Jack Dorsey visits when he’s feeling cantankerous. These tech giants use me and abuse me as nothing more than a place to put their expensive toys. And I like it. That is how you properly treat 400 square feet of a Bay Area home. Your single rusty kettlebell and tasteful Ikea breakfast table could never satisfy an apartment like me.
I’d be embarrassed for you if I didn’t find your obsession with me so cute. But did you seriously think you could ever get with such a hot commodity? Not only have you never secured Series C venture capital financing, but you don’t even know what those words mean. You’re just a mid-career workaday slump who knows exactly zero programming languages. If you want to get it in (and by “it” I mean your collection of H&M T-shirts) with an apartment as desirable as I am, you’ll have to get in line behind about 50 28-year-old millionaires. You know, the type who goes and takes what they want. They like their apartments spacious, their boba teas foamy, and their stocks fully vested.
Maybe it’s time you realize I’m out of your league. Let me introduce you to my less attractive, less cool cousin, 2,000 square feet in the suburbs. Why don’t you give him a call? Sure, he’s never been to a world-class art museum, and he thinks a Michelin starred restaurant sells car tires. But he’s cheap, quite large, and always DTF (down to furnish).
Sure, you could cut back on Instacart or save some cash by making coffee at home. What’s more likely is that your lusty longings will go unfulfilled unless you receive an unexpected inheritance or invent the next Twitter. So, for now, you’re just going to have to admire me from afar. Lucky for you, I’ve started an OnlyFans account. My user name is SizeQueenFourHundo. When you get there, don’t forget to send me pics from your new home in the exact suburb you once called “the cultural desert where joy goes to die.”
