With a booming population and a blistering real estate market, Seattle, like many American cities, is in the midst of a serious housing crisis. There are many terrible consequences to this: increased homelessness, for one, as well as rapid gentrification that threatens to tear apart neighborhoods, and minority and impoverished populations that are being pushed out of the city entirely. But there’s another problem, one that, personally, I don’t think gets nearly enough attention. Ready? My house is too damn small, and it’s hard on my dating life.

While I often refer to my home as a “tiny house” because it makes my living situation seem like a conscious choice and not a consequence of Seattle’s insane housing market, I actually live in a studio apartment. But at less than 300 square feet, my home in Seattle is roughly the size of a dumpster, which gives me more in common with the tiny house life than most Americans.

Like dwellers of actual tiny houses, I sleep in a lofted bed, my bathroom doesn’t have a sink, and only one person can stand in the kitchen at a time. Even worse, I pay handsomely for the privilege of living in this shoebox. The diminutive size of my home affects my life in ways I didn’t anticipate before signing my lease. I can’t own anything, which admittedly makes my lifestyle extremely sustainable, but is also inconvenient. I only have enough room for a bed (that you have to climb a ladder to get into), a single plate, one bowl, one chair, and the clock radio that serves as my home entertainment system. While this could work for either a literal tiny person or a youngster, I am neither. At 32 years of age, I find myself in the ideal apartment for an 8-year-old.