This post was inspired by an outlandish text thread I started with my friends shortly after I moved into my apartment in August 2017. It began as a documentation of bizarre encounters that occurred in the alley directly behind my flat. Eventually, I hope it will evolve into a stream of stories about my life as a single, young woman in Seattle.
Like many other broke 20-something-year-olds, I sacrificed square footage for a prime location on Capitol Hill, a trendy and progressive neighborhood in downtown Seattle. Ergo, I reside in a studio apartment the size of a tuna can in which I trade roughly 70 hours of work for a month’s rent. Despite the size and cost, I’m still dazzled by the populous of Ubers, pubs and pizzerias accessible day or night. Everything I need is within a block radius or can be delivered in an hour, thanks to Amazon Prime. This ideal location affords me the luxury of a speedy commute to work on foot, rather than forfeiting an hour in traffic each morning only to expand my carbon footprint.
More often than not, I’m smitten here. Whenever I leave my apartment, I’m swept into a frenzy of chaos created by cool city dwellers, bustling establishments and the buzzing culture. There’s as much excitement on a Monday night as there is on a Saturday night. Eclectic mom and pops litter the streets juxtaposed between music venues, pop-up art exhibits and cafes. I live smack dab in the center of the libertarian universe, where public restrooms are gender fluid, rainbows replace white cross walk paint and AIDs tests are free.
However, despite my adoration with of all this, what the lease agreement didn’t tell me is that city-living also comes with many less-than-glamorous drawbacks. Upon my arrival, I understood this quickly. The most notable realization was that the alley behind my apartment also doubles as vortex for degenerates, providing narratives that can be classified as either hilarious, disturbing, grotesque or all of the above. I will share these stories with you here.