I have this box of overpriced invitations sitting on my new quartz countertop and I want to throw them out the window because the light in this place is so good it actually makes me sick. I worked my ass off as a freelancer for three years, eating nothing but toast and anxiety, and now that I finally landed that corporate contract and moved into a place with a WASHER AND DRYER, I feel like a total fraud. It’s disgusting. I’m sitting here in 700 square feet of "minimalist luxury" while my best friend Sarah is literally sharing a one-bedroom with a guy she met on Craigslist who keeps his reptile heat lamps on 24/7. How am I supposed to invite them over for cheese and wine? "Hey guys, come look at my floor-to-ceiling windows while you figure out how to pay your rent increase this month!" God, I hate myself for even wanting the windows. I can already see the look on their faces—that tight, polite smile they’ll wear while they're touching my velvet sofa. They’ll say "Oh, it’s so you!" which is just code for "You finally made enough money to stop being one of us." We used to bond over the struggle, you know? We used to sit in Mark’s kitchen with the peeling linoleum and talk about how the city was killing us, but now I’m the one who survived and it feels like I’ve betrayed some unspoken pact. I’m the one who got out of the trenches and now I’m looking down from the fifth floor like some Victorian ghost. It’s pathetic. I’m actually ANGRY that I’m successful enough to afford a place that doesn’t smell like damp wool and old grease. Why do I feel like I need to apologize for having a bathroom door that actually locks? It’s not even like I’m rich. I’m one bad month away from being right back in a basement, but in this city, having your own space is like flaunting a fucking yacht.