It’s the bane of your existence and the platform for your whole entire life anywhere. It wakes you up, puts you to sleep, hangs out with you on a daily basis. Home sweet home. So why do I feel like New York City collectively and not so secretly is pulling for me to reside elsewhere? I mean come on, I was born in New York, don’t I get some seniority over all the outsiders? Of course it all comes down to money and for a reason that escapes me at the moment, money remains rather coy with me. It doesn’t grow on trees, I guess. Or maybe there are just not enough trees in Manhattan. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, why, when I’ve finally saved up enough of this mysterious greenery, found roommates, and even found an apartment I like, am I required to magically come from some billionaire background. A guarantor is not something I find to be pointless by any means. It is a security measure of the utmost importance for the real estate business. But when my guardian is required to make “upwards of $150,000 annually,” for a three bedroom East Village apartment of suitable size for one seven year old, I get a touch flustered. Is Manhattan newly reserved for a population of the over-privileged? Because when I see the rich and the spoiled getting into apartments in a snap of the proverbial magic wand, I get even a touch more flustered.
Monday, Apr 6, 2026
