Tina Turner once sang, “I can’t stand the rain / Against my window,” and I was like, “GURL, WHAT? YOU ARE INSIDE WHERE IT IS DRY. LET’S KEEP OUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT.”

I hate rain.

You know that thing when a cat is submerged into a body of water against his will, and then he comes out looking fifty pounds skinnier and like a demon who will FUCK. YOU. UP? That’s essentially me all of April, except not fifty pounds skinnier, due to the fact I have to lug fifty extra pounds of waterproof gear everywhere.

If you’ve ever been curious about whether Totes is lying about the indestructibility of their umbrellas, stand with one open in a New York City wind tunnel on a rainy day for a short experiment.

New York is the worst when it rains. Everything smells weird. You probably smell weird. Hair care and beauty routines become, I mean, like—why? Just why? The sight of sidewalk runoff water makes you want to throw up in your mouth, because that shit is a whole lot yellow-red-browner than it should be. The subway becomes its own urban wetland, only instead of marshes and alligators, we have floating Cheetos bags, Slushie cups, and suspect debris, and the strong muscle rats who weren’t washed away by Sandy. And cars are assholes; not the people driving them per se, but the cars themselves, what with the tires, and the puddles, and the splashing.

This city is miserable wet. Rain brings all the inconvenience snow does without the fluffy, beautiful, shuts everything the hell up, magic.

“But, Daniela: April showers bring May flowers.”

IT’S FUCKING NEW YORK. CONCRETE JUNGLE. EMPHASIS ON CONCRETE. I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT A FLOWER LOOKS LIKE.

Little House on the Prairie.

“Prairie” being New York, and “Little House” being my approximately 450 sq. ft. apartment.

The New York real estate game reminds me of what it must have been like to adhere to the rules of the wild wild west: no one giving a flying fuck! Man, it is a free-for-all that will truly test where you find yourself in the battle of survival of the fittest. I'm one of the lucky New Yorkers who inherited my current apartment from a friend, and I have since decided that I will only leave once the landlord drags my stinking, rotting carcass out of the building. Mostly because I just have too much shit in there, and the idea of moving it all hurts my head and my heart.

But, also because this apartment is the first I’ve truly considered a home that is mine and mine alone. No, I don’t own it (ha!), but it's the first piece of property that reflects my personality entirely; that apartment is me. I have lived in it, decorated it, styled it, and organized it myself. I’ve been heartbroken in it, fallen back in love in it, defeated in it, and then successful once more. It is messy, and then clean, and then messy again. It has been the beneficiary of my time and effort, which, albeit may not always be a lot, has still been my own contribution, motivated by none other than myself. And that’s a big deal, especially here in New York where it’s more common than not to have one or several roommates. When I moved here and realized what the rental situation was, I never dreamed I’d be able to manage living on my own some day.

Yet that’s the magnificent and frustrating wonder of this unpredictable city: out of nowhere, some day came.

AllSaints denim button-up; Zara faux leather skirt; Converse leather sneakers; Ribbon I found somewhere.