Living in a Conex

Living in a conex is better than you might imagine. Conex: container express. A military word. A metal box eight feet wide, twenty feet deep, and nine feet high. Somebody built four walls, a floor, and a door out of wood. There are two bunk beds, a shelf with four roomy spaces, and a table. It’s better than you might imagine, I say, because there is also an air conditioning unit. I keep it set at twenty degrees Celcius. I still haven’t converted that to Fahrenheit; I would guess sixty-ish. It’s better than you might imagine, also, because I have electricity and internet access. I can blog from my conex. I can watch movies in my conex. I can electric shave in my conex. It’s better than you might imagine, thirdly, because it’s just me. There’s nobody else breathing down my neck or snoring or listening to stand-up comedy on their iPod and laughing at random times and scaring bojangles out of me. This brings me to my fourth and final point. It’s better than you might imagine because I’m not packed in here with twenty or fifty other people. I’ve heard stories about people trying to sneak into America by way of conex. They’re sometimes packed into these conex storage units for months at a time. Some people die. Some people get arrested. Me? I stream Youtube videos in delightfully frigid solitude. Living in a conex is better than you might imagine.