When it comes to real estate, I’ve definitely had my fair share of rustic “pre-war” urban appeal. Exposed brick. Original hardwood floors. Marble fireplaces. Moulding. Fifth floor walk up. You name it, I’ve lived in it. And it has been quite lovely, actually. I’ve felt the history of my residences – too many to count – that I’ve lived in throughout these glorious twenties.
But alas, Saturn is returning. I’ve got about seven months left of this care-free decade. And I’m so comfortable in knowing that. I feel my life changing in many ways. I’m wiser. Freer. Still the same zany, sometimes hesitant (though lesser now than before), dreamer I’ve always been – just, as my friend Mike said a few weeks back during a chance encounter, “with more swag”.
And speaking of swag, I think its time I mark this growth with a change in my living arena. I want a sexy apartment. Sleek. Modern. A step toward living in a sculpture. I’ve never lived in my own apartment. Well, I subletted a studio by myself for a semester in college and hated it (I got sick early one morning and had to call an ambulance on myself). But I think now I’m ready to get my grown woman on, say goodbye to roommates and hello to some swankiness 
I mean, I just wonder what it’d be like to wake up to this…
Clean lines. Imagine that. For me, it really is all about the kitchen.
A lady just wants to entertain.
I came across this “room” over at 
