I’ve been watching a lot of Queer Eye lately and naturally reflecting on the humble Brooklyn apartment which I co-habitate with three people and a cat. I do not own the cat, and like the typical (and IMO ideal) urban roommate setup, we don’t hang out too much, we stick to our own dishes and share an acceptable level of managed squalor. Her furnishing preferences, from what I can gather, are laundry piles, cardboard boxes, and crawl spaces; her day-to-day occupation is solving mysteries (1) WHAT’S THAT?, 2) WHO’S THERE?), and satiating her constant, gnawing hunger stemmed only by her work.
But are our needs truly met? Does she occupy a mental state of goddess-ness, or more of a comfortable stasis? Does she, too, ever retreat under the couch to dream of that park-side one-bedroom steal with ample natural light, balconies, and exposed brick in the sky?
Like, do we need to fab five this bitch?
Like THIS?
Yaaaassssss, if my roommates and I coughed up $243.99 (28% off!), kitty could be living the high life in the Gatsby Cat House by Archie & Oscar, designers of 500 pet-specific furniture pieces such as the “Darwin” Dog Sofa (a cruel joke?), this $266 thing (“modular”), and the Clara Outdoor Hooded Dog Chaise Lounge which implies that you have a patio, which we do not.
I’m not sure how Gatsby Cat House would better serve her #goals, and no way in hell are we spending that kind of money, but I wonder: are we suppressing our feelings under this pile of laundry? Are we living within the walls of this sublet, or walls inside our hearts? Are we fooling ourselves with this zero-effort grooming routine? Shit, has that been my hair clogging the drain this whole time?
I’m going to book a haircut and put myself out there!!!
The cat’s fine.
Happy Saturday!
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Still here. Still without airbrushing. Still with teeth.
