Hey asshole,
If you read past our opening insult, you’re just who we wanted to talk to. Either you really are an asshole, or you’re too chill to care what we think. Either way it’s cool because number one, we’re all assholes and number two, even assholes need a place to live.
We are not trying to sell you on this apartment. Notice we are not calling it a flat. Flats are what they have in England, or what beatnik chicks wear to a party. Nor is it a residence. I mean holy fuck. Residences. Picture yourself forty years from now. That’s not so old, but climate change has totally fucked with your health so you look like you’re about a hundred. You look like Mel Gibson after he’s been floating in a lake for two weeks and every time you sit down or stand up you leak a little piss. Your kids are sick of your smelly old ass and want to put you in a home–someplace awful, of course, because everything is awful in that post-Trump hellscape and nobody has any money, least of all you.
Eventually they find you an affordable grotesque decaying former hipster hotel where the metal’s all rusted and the particle board everything’s made out of is slightly soggy and the attendants are all from the last country left on earth that’s so weak that America, fucked out as it is, can still exploit their workers–Eritrea or some shit. And of course they hate your living guts, they’ll spit in your food and dream up ways to kill you without leaving marks. Your kids picked this place, not because it’s the best, because they don’t give a shit, and not because it’s the worst, because they don’t give a shit, but because it had a name that sounds like something you would like, something that would appeal to you as a senile former millennial with poop in your pants. It’s called The Residences. The Residences at Isherwood.
This is not a residence. It’s an apartment. Actually it’s a condo but, big shock, no one’s buying condos at present because no one has any faith in the future, so you can take advantage of our distress by renting one of these primo units. Yes, you can rip off a landlord instead of vice versa for a change, which I bet makes you feel like a big man.
What they look like
Did you think this picture of a one-bedroom was from a stock art catalogue? Good, because actually that’s what we were going for. It checks all the boxes: Polished wood floors. Some brick. “Open Plan” kitchen that makes the place look bigger. Maybe you think the paint and lighting and furniture are on the thirsty side, and that you’re too smart to fall for such an obvious realtor trick, but guess what, these units actually come like this — with exactly this asymmetric paint job and one-step-up-from-Ikea-one-step-down-from-West-Elm sofas and tables and hanging geodesic paper lanterns. Because we know you’re never going to have the time or the energy or dare we say the imagination to make it “nice,” so we’re doing it for you. You don’t even have to do the Edward Norton Fight Club apartment phone-in set-up.
And when the paper lanterns get greasy and your cats tear up the West Ikea furniture and you get sick of looking at royal blue and burnt orange, ring our property manager and eventually you’ll hear a “thump” at your front door and when you open it you’ll find the same catalogues we got this shit from so you can order something else. Or you can pay an exorbitant fee and have us make that decision for you. But of course you’re too smart and frugal for that; you’re certainly going to handle it yourself; you’re not going to think and talk about moving somewhere else and then look at a few listings on Craigslist and maybe talk to someone at Urban Igloo and not call them back (especially after that agent gets like positively stalkerish); you’re not going to let it slide until well past the last minute and then, on your iPhone on the train after a thirteen-hour shift, wearily hit the button at our portal to just have us take care of everything. Oh no. That’s not you at all.
No Lounge
Surprise! We’re actually proud of this. Maybe where you live now they have one of these creepy tryhard common areas with a fridge and coffeemaker and a TV and maybe even a grill and a pool table and uuggggh we can’t even. Maybe you actually like it, but you’re not going to tell us that because God, really, that’s pathetic, make friends or join a church or something. Anyway we don’t have that. We don’t even have couches in the lobby. Well we do have a couple of couches, but like couches in lobbies back in your parents’ day (though we know your parents lived in totally lame suburbs, we mean other cooler people who were also alive then), the couches are uncomfortable and for show, not for encouraging grown men and women to hang out on them and play Parcheesi or get so into their laptops they might forget this isn’t really their home or even a WeWork space, it’s a like a giant doorway and they’re so damaged and lonely they want to hang out in it.
We do have a patio in the back, though, where you can smoke.
Financing
Have your dad write us a check.
