Ever since I was in middle school and binge watched “MTV Cribs” every afternoon, I’ve dreamed of one day owning my own sweet pad. Thus, I started my search for a house in Syracuse with all the enthusiasm fat middle school me had for gas station burritos.

I essentially got to live an episode of “MTV Cribs” with each house tour — minus the intimate shots of refrigerators, the copious amounts of “Scarface” posters and the inevitable awful joke of “This is where the magic happens” when we get to see the bedroom.

Now, I’m not very keen on the inherent competition that comes along with the sheer amount of sophomores still looking. If you happen to be a sophomore reading this: Don’t worry about housing. There will be plenty of it to choose from in the spring…on the other side of I-81.

The tours get weirder when your direct competition is there with you. You feel like you must battle it out “The Hunger Games” style to see who can win the slightly overpriced apartment with that bathtub that has feet.

I got into a charm-off with the small girl who was looking at the same apartment; it was a competition I tried to win by asking lots of questions to the landlord and punctuating every answer he gave with a, “Wow, very cool.” I even gave that response when a light fixture in the bathroom wasn’t working.

Each tour is pretty much the same, except the landlords don’t look anything like you might expect. You know the kind of guy with a twisty mustache, top hat and burlap sacks painted with dollar signs to signify the presence of money?

But, alas, he or she is usually just an old person who has an absurd amount of keys.

Once inside the house, both you and the landlord are bound by a weird unspoken contract to not acknowledge the existence of the people currently living in that house. You treat them like you treat a sad ghost: You can look at them. And judge them for their messiness. But so help me god if you start asking them questions.

I was beginning to see that my new “Cribs” life was more daunting than I had ever imagined. Instead of glamorous pools and trampolines everywhere, I was met with creaky floors and a mysterious attic that the landlord absolutely did not want me to go in.

I started to get wistful about my old dorm life. I mean, the dirty clothes pile in my room was just getting settled in. Why was I being forced to think of my future so soon?

It’s probably the most adult thing I’ve ever done. Which I guess isn’t so hard to believe, given that last night I ate an absurd amount of mini-cupcakes and then proceeded to complain about my sugar headache for the next two hours.

It’s strange to think I’ll need to worry about something like rent. Though I am excited to quote “School of Rock” every time the legend of the rent is way hardcore.

It’s also sad to think that the dining hall and I will soon be taking a very long break. Yeah, I know the relationship is bad for me, but every time I think I’m done, the dining hall brings out a pasta bar and I come flying back into Ernie’s sticky embrace.

But I’ll keep searching for that elusive crib. One day soon, middle school me will find the perfect place to eat all of his gas station burritos and mini-cupcakes and watch copious amounts of MTV.

Christian Unkenholz is a sophomore public relations and political science major. He can be found testing whether a bathtub is “low flow” in a house near you. His column appears every Thursday in Pulp. He can be reached at cdunkenh@syr.edu.

Published on October 2, 2013 at 11:01 pm