So I have this red couch, right?
Copping this couch was a big deal for me. Though I’d lived on my own twice before settling at my residence on Cleveland’s West Side, I never owned a couch. Sans a television and television stand, my former apartments never had furniture outside of my bedroom. When I purchased a couch and a dining room table for my new place, this move felt more adult. More permanent. Like I was finally creating a home space where I could settle for a few years.
In the beginning, I recruited CT to help me give my space some character. Among the many areas of life where I’m not a girl is interior design. While I can appreciate nice visuals, I’ve got no idea what it takes to create an aesthetically pleasing home space. I just knew I wanted brown for my bedroom (because brown makes me feel warm and cozy) and purple for the bathroom (the color or royalty, and the place I primp should be royal). If left to my own devices, I would have bought some earth color couch that evoked a homey, warm feeling and gone on about my day. But when CT and I went furniture hunting and found the red, microfiber couch on sale for a hot $350, I went for it. Not only was it economical and of decent quality, but it’d give my living room an automatic “pop.”
I’ve been in my apartment for three months now and nothing about this place “pops.” It doesn’t sparkle. It doesn’t doesn’t scream “SBG.” It doesn’t say anything, except that its resident knows nothing about interior design.
Like any person in dire need of a clue, I went to the internet. I’ve spent the last few weeks occasionally perusing home design blogs for ideas about what to do with my living room, dining room, and kitchen spaces. I scan some pictures, think “Ooooh that’s pretty,” then “but I don’t think I have the budget to imitate that in my apartment.” Or “Is that really my style? What the hell is my interior design style? Oh that’s right. I don’t have one.” And like most pursuits that require me step outside of what I know, I get frustrated, flustered and think to myself “Oh, fuck it” and close out the window.
Meanwhile, I sit in this character-less 800 sq ft space. Which sucks, because if you know me, you know I’m a character. It’s just that anytime I have to depict that in a way that doesn’t involve words, I’m always at a loss.
*sigh*
Isn’t there some reality show ya’ll can sign me up for that will come remake my apartment or some shit?
Help.




