Sometimes, I get really sad about my building getting torn down at the end of the year. It’s my first real apartment and we’ve come such a long way together, navigating this crazy decade of transition known as the 20’s.

But then I go to bed at night and hear the squirrels romping above me. And my goodnight prayers consist of, “Lord, please don’t let me get rabies.” And then I wake up in the morning and hear the birds chirping in the rafters a foot away from my window (and when it’s 6:00am it’s not chirping, it’s squawking). And then I get into the shower to either no water pressure or no hot water or no cold water or a randomized, keeps-me-guessing combination of all three. And then I walk down the stairs and see the gigantic hole in the stairway, the same hole that held the nail I had tried to put through the wall upstairs in my bathroom before discovering the walls were literally paper thin by putting the head of my hammer entirely through the wall.

And in these short moments between sleeping and waking, I understand…and am in full agreement with the health department’s landlord’s decision to demolish. It’s time.