Communing with the freelance nightlife journalist version of me that emerged on the Lower East Side in the 90s out of a desire to belong.
Hey Sari's amygdala - chill out! Let her sleep!
I paid $400 a month for a similar apartment--mouse infested, bath in the kitchen, tiny bedroom--up in Hell's Kitchen in the late '80s. Pre-pandemic, I took my husband to see the building. The dumpster was still in the courtyard, and there were torn curtains in the windows. "Talk about squalid," he said. It hadn't changed much since I lived there, but I'm sure the rents are outrageous and rats still congregate under the dumpster.
It was really refreshing to see someone else explain how the drinking age was raised on them... twice. With no grandfather clause. People kind of don't believe me when I tell them how I as an April birthday, I was legal for a summer and as semester of sophomore year in college and then I wasn't when the New Year rang in. I also didn't care about the drinking, I just wanted to be able to have that third space and be able to go out and dance and hear music. What a peculiar elite club we belong to!