It is disturbingly cold in my room. I’m sitting at my computer with a mug full of chai latte I steamed so hot it burns my tongue, so hot it makes me forget that I am shaking. The landlord told me today that the furnace in the basement is being fixed, so the heat should be on within the next few days. I want to tell him, this temperature is illegal, so let’s expedite the process as much as possible. I want to tell him, you know, I can’t sleep at night because I can only think about how I’m going to turn into a big Filipino ice cube overnight. But most of all I want to tell him, if you don’t fix the fucking heat I’m going to slip into a horrible lonely depression by the end of the week.

I spent more time this evening than I’d like to admit welling up with tears because the temperature, like always, has spurred this feeling of desolation and depression and oh-my-god-i’m-going-to-be-a-crazy-old-guy-playing-checkers-alone-in-the-park-when-i-hit-my-sixties. New York depresses me. Everyone has an agenda. An agenda which usually has fame, sex, money, and glamour all crowding the top. I don’t know where to meet anyone. This city isn’t made for romantics, it’s made for ruthless, cutthroat, conniving starfuckers.

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but I’ve been here for fourteen months without a serious, physical, emotional, mental relationship. And please, don’t start the condolences. I know it’s not me, I know that. I would date me, in fact. Not that I’m full of myself, but I know that I have a lot to offer. I’m witty, fun to be around, creative, responsible, romantic, thoughtful. I have a career path in the works. I have a 401(k). I have medical benefits. I have stocks. I’m nineteen; who has that at nineteen? I’m an old soul trapped in a young body, and I’m tired of not being able to relate to anyone my own age. I wouldn’t mind dating an older guy, but I can’t find anyone. Period.

I guess I’m not looking in the right places. And by that, I mean I’m not looking at all. Bars and clubs I’ve done extensively, and, shock of a lifetime, not really the people I’m looking for. At least not in the correct context. The Internet? Please. While I’m sure Prince Charming is out there, I can’t see him through the forest of ads for pigs, barebacking, fisting, 7c, vers/top, masc only, no asians, rimming, et cetera, et cetera. I work in a coffeeshop, there goes that one. I’d go to museums, but I’d rather not…cruise at a museum. Go figure. I’m not that desperate yet.

I know it’s only a matter of time, but how many Fiona Apple songs do I have to listen to before I can stop identifying with her?

Basically, what I’m saying is, wanna cuddle?