I don't live in the papal residence. I live in a simple apartment behind the Vatican gas station.
All my life, I never really felt comfortable anywhere in New York, except maybe in an apartment somewhere.
It has to do - I think - with growing up in an apartment, with my aunt and my cousins right next door to me, with the door open, with neighbors walking in and out, with people yelling at each other all the time.
I installed a skylight in my apartment... the people who live above me are furious!
People lived in the same apartments for years. You'd meet a group of kids in kindergarten, and you'd still be with them in high school. No one ever left the neighborhood.
Apartment living is tough action. Just the whole idea that you share a washer and dryer always freaked me out.
The best thing about being a cartoonist is to walk into a bar or someone's apartment and they don't know you, but they've taped one of your pieces up.
I no longer want to live in an apartment furnished with forklifts and backhoes.
I have to be alone very often. I'd be quite happy if I spent from Saturday night until Monday morning alone in my apartment. That's how I refuel.
I found myself serving a sentence of public denial from the very second the raid on my apartment happened.
I'm a teenager, but I'm independent - I have my own apartment, I have my own life. And I think I have learned more than any of those teenagers have in school. I learned to be responsible, leaving my family and coming here alone.
About 25 years ago, I was in an apartment, and next door, they put on the radio, so I struck the wall with my fist, but they did not put the radio down. I took a tool and banged until I made a hole through the wall. It was like a comedy movie.
Sure, my childhood was unusual. All these eccentric, wild people frequented our home: rock stars, drag queens, models, bikers, freaks. But I was not this little rich girl. My mom and I lived in an apartment.
The government only makes restrictive rules, they dont show you what to do so you know, OK, heres where we need this many apartments, with open space, playgrounds, kindergartens.
It just seemed too weird to me. I don't know, maybe they were smoking a joint in the car downstairs from their parents' apartment. I had to go that far to put together a scenario of how they could have possibly recognized me.
Like many alcoholics, I was a staggering woman in a chic apartment, sick and utterly disgusting.
I can pay my rent now. I guess I could always do that, but now I can get an apartment with heat.
My roommate got a pet elephant. Then it got lost. It's in the apartment somewhere.
I'm the biggest slob in the world. My apartment is a mess.
They look outside the windows of their apartment in town and realize they're not living in a terrace anymore. This is a room full of dreamers who like to go to London for a day.
The inner spaces that a good story lets us enter are the old apartments of religion.
My son tried to work in films and he ultimately gave it up, he finally couldn't make a living, he couldn't support himself. He worked all the time and he didn't make enough money to have a house, have an apartment.
In fact, I had previously helped train one of the FBI agents who searched my apartment.
My parents used to throw great New Year's Eve parties. They invited such an eclectic mix of showbiz people. All those cool people were always hanging out at our apartment.
Why do people have to love people anyway?
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