I despise sunny days in the city, especially near this crapass park. I should move to the West Village, so I can shop and get drunk on filthy martinis while I’m outdoors. I need to move. Being anywhere near a park is just a reminder of what I don’t have. SPACE. There’s no space in this city, and I never feel it more than when I’m near the park full of it. On bright days, everyone comes to enjoy the space, overcrowding it and depriving us all of any privacy.

The park is full of people, doing things they should be doing indoors. Like holding hands, and wearing their children like necklaces. They’re running. Isn’t that what the frickin’ treadmill is for? I don’t even like dates in the park, on blankets, even if there is a guitar. You know why? It’s just not me. I fcuking hate Central Park. I’ll say it again; it’s crapass. These sunny days keep me from movie theatres and bookstores out of guilt. “How could you be inside on such a magnificent day? You’ll have all winter to do that.” I don’t care about trees or parks or rollerbladers. I don’t want to submerge myself in it. A lovely day like this is for lounging by a private pool and planning a barbecue. It’s for gardening and looking through magazines only for the pictures. I don’t want to be near runners or families or idiots laying around in bikinis thinking they’ve got it good. You’re sharing all this space with all these strangers, and you’re dressed so intimately doing it. All these people are sharing their intimate moments in such public spaces. They’re sweating, bonding with their families, and stripping down to underwear alternatives. Get a room.