And for the record I don't give a fuck who your team is, you don't want it with me cos I'm an extremist.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Is it even me? No, perhaps not. Perhaps the problem is New York City itself. No, not the actual geographical location unless it was built on some fucking soul-sucking black hole gateway to hell. I always assumed that was Paris, and last time I checked the subway systems weren't the catacombs, but they MIGHT AS FUCKING WELL BE because every meat puppet that sits and stands in those cold steel coffins hurtling through the darkness is DEAD INSIDE. FUCKING DEAD. Myself included at the moment, because FUCK ME, I'm ready to quit. I'm so fucking ready to quit and I haven't even fucking started. Every single one of those catatonic ghouls, drifting through the bowels of the city that never sleeps, makes me want to drive a rusty screw driver right into what's left of my faintly ticking heart. It's funny, the stupid shit you remember when you're bordering on a nervous breakdown. "AGE AINT A NUMBER". It doesn't even fucking make sense but I remember it like it was yesterday, when realistically it might as well have been because any concept of time I once had has been pissed into the wind. I remember that white trash, yokel fuck saying it so well with his poorly grown mustache and teeth yellowed from so many menthols bummed off of unwilling pedestrians. "AGE AINT A NUMBER". Well technically, it is I thought, right before I plowed my fist into those very same yellow teeth. It wasn't his stupidity that made me sick. No, I lied, It was, but It was also the extent of it. This degenerate, had perched himself upon my personal fence-post and was harassing my then girlfriend's younger sister. Far too young to even know what this cockrocket was propositioning to her, but boy he sure didn't seem to think so. Well what this poor fuck meant, moments before I sent him to the emergency room with a shattered jaw, was that "age does not matter". I wish I could hit him again just for being so FUCKING WRONG when realistically he should have been right. Realistically, I should be about 10050 years old, because that's how old I feel. Maybe it had something to do with growing up completely alone, waking up alone to the same alarm clock, locking the same empty house behind me every day for so many years, and unlocking the same dark empty house hours later, just to skip a dinner I was too numb to bother making, after yet another day of wasted youth. Chock a few more zeroes onto that number for me, fuck it, AGE AINT A NUMBER. Funny how I never thought about that phrase for years and years, after the same broken scenario played out over and over and over like a warped phonograph with a rusty nail constantly skipping off of melted vinyl. AGE AINT A NUMBER. Because three fucking years makes you the epitome of ageless wisdom and me the equivalent of an abortion? FUCK YOU. I feel so hypocritical bitching about this, when I've always deliberately dated older women believing I'd have some better chance at finding "love". EVERY FUCKING TIME, I end up being the one leaving because they're fucking mentally still 14 and think life is just one big FUCKING GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE and don't want to 'settle down'. Well that's just fucking fine, go ahead and settle down when your ovaries turn to fucking dust and you're old and decrepit and sun-bleached and so skinny you FALL THROUGH YOUR OWN FUCKING ASS AND HANG YOURSELF.

Why am I the fucking crazy one, just because I would swim across the arctic sea for someone to read to in bed? Is that so much to ask for? Apparently. But it's what I want. Just one someone. Someone to count stars with, travel with, live with, breathe with, laugh with, cry with, love with, die with. Someone who appreciates both art and science and not my fucking bank cards. Someone who thirsts for knowledge the same way we thirst for one another. Someone I could travel out to sea away from for years and years, and never for one second have to try and remember the sound of their voice. Someone for me. Not 600 DIFFERENT Some ones who all get one LITTLE TINY FUCKING PIECE OF ME, until ALL OF ME IS GONE. USED UP, DRIED UP, FUCKED UP. Until every last ounce of me that knows how to love is scraped from the insides of my ribcage, and smeared blood-red all over the hands of every empty soul who's ever claimed to really "know" me. Every morning, when I walk into that steel coffin that screeches to a halt before me, I want to walk through the mechanical doors and scream "GOOD MORNING, WHOS READY TO DIE ALONE?". I'm sick of being fed the whole OH BE PATIENT you'll find the right someone routine. That only works for people with no self respect who are content with empty sex until they actually find someone who can put up with their shit long enough to marry and eventually divorce them. THEN, they die alone drunk and too young. Everyone is too young. AGE AINT A NUMBER and sex in NYC is too easily compared to time spent in libraries. Awkward, with strangers, and always too quiet or too noisy. There is no love in the air, or concrete. Only vile germs in the warm wind rushing up through the sewer-hole covers and spit blood and cum in the fucking gutters.

Wake me up when I'm dead.