For my column this week, I want to talk about something we all have to deal with sooner or later: living. I’m not talking about that breathing, heart-pumping bullshit kind of living — I’m talking about living in an actual place of residence. Because chances are, even with the economy in the state it’s in, you live somewhere. But I don’t want to talk about where you live, I want to talk about me.

I live in a studio apartment. In real estate terms, this translates to “”I live in a shit-hole.””

Actually, what it’s supposed to mean is that my bedroom and living room have merged into one glorious room of convenience and economy, but let’s be honest with each other: It means shit-hole.

When you walk into my apartment, one of the first things you’ll notice is my bed. Despite the fact that my apartment is the size of a sardine can, I have a queen-size bed. And before you even think it, that was not my own bright idea. The bed came with the apartment, probably because the walls were built around it — then the contractor realized that it was too big to fit through the door so that it can be replaced by a more practical mattress size.

The result of this madness is that though three people cannot comfortably stand in my living room/bedroom/sardine can, they can all comfortably lie in my bed at the same time. (This makes for interesting visits, I must say.)

To be fair, my bed is also supposed to be a couch, which I can place underneath my desk to make a lot more room. But this maneuver requires me to do actual work — namely, moving furniture. And if anyone thinks I am the kind of person who actually spends valuable energy making her bed into a couch just so I have enough room to do a pirouette, he or she is most definitely insane. (I don’t pirouette either, so this is really a moot point.)

So anyway, my bed is huge. I am not. Therefore, this makes no sense.

My bed is also one of the most noticeable things in my apartment because, due to the creative interior decorating of — probably — the same moron who thought it was a reasonable size, my bed is right next to the door. If you take one step into my apartment and fall immediately to your left, guess where you are? That’s right: my bed!

I suppose that this really is rather practical. I mean, if a rapist decides to break into my apartment, I don’t want him to have to scrounge around in the dark looking for my bed. That would probably piss him off, and quite frankly, if I’m going to get raped, I would prefer that it be by someone who is pleasantly surprised by how easily accessible my bed is.

Another major issue I have with my apartment is that the ceiling peels off. Literally.

Apparently, those who have inhabited my apartment before me all disagreed over what color the ceiling should be, so they all painted it different colors. Of course, I normally wouldn’t give a rat’s ass, but since the different layers of paint have started to slowly come off (and in patches, mind you), my ceiling looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.

But I guess this isn’t that big a deal, either. I mean, I don’t really look at my ceiling that often, and if anyone asks, I can pretend a famous artist friend of mine was trying to “”make a statement about societal decay.”” So like my enormous, easy-access bed, my ceiling doesn’t really bother me that much.

No, what really bothers me – what really pisses me off (no pun intended) – is my bathroom.

A couple weeks ago, I was taking a shower. And, like I normally do when I have cleansed myself to the best of my ability – I turned off the water. So you can imagine my surprise when I still felt water dripping on my head. And sure enough, when I looked up, I saw not only a fairly large, dripping crack, but also a large bulge of ceiling where there was clearly more water waiting to make its great escape.

So I’m thinking that this is really not that bad. I mean, if I have to have a part of my ceiling dripping water and threatening to come completely off, I should be damn grateful that it’s over my bathtub. This is really the best water-dripping scenario you can have.

Fine, then. I told my manager, and sure enough, the next day, maintenance arrived.

And I must say, maintenance fixed my ceiling. You know how they did it? By taking a big chunk of my wall and putting it over the crack in my ceiling. They moved the holes. Instead of it being over my head, now the hole is right in front of my fucking face when I shower. Granted, there is no water dripping out of it, but staring at spider webs and pipes really ruins my shower ambiance, you know?

I like to think that maintenance will eventually come back and keep moving the hole until it is in my floor. And since no one lives below me, this will provide a fun new entrance for the rapists to use.

So basically, my apartment is a shit-hole. Why do I still live there? Because if I’m too lazy to convert my bed into its couch form, do you really think I’m going to pack up all my stuff and move? God, no. Then the apartment would win, and no sardine-can wannabe apartment is going to get the best of this sardine.