Nineteen years.

Ninefuckingteen. Ten plus nine. Twenty minus one. And, more importantly, forty-two minus twenty-three.

That's a lot, right?

That's too much, right?

Now, if I were retarded, then maybe. Maybe I wouldn't care so much about the total lack of commonality between our lives. Maybe I wouldn't spend all of my time wondering when someone new, someone better, someone at least fucking younger would come along and lure her away from me with his fucking full head of hair and all his fucking teeth.

Or if she'd grown up homeless on the mean streets, learning about life the hard way while other children her age were singing along to Barney and fighting with their siblings over who got the biggest slice of cake at Grandma's birthday party, then maybe. Maybe she'd be wiser than her years. Maybe she'd be ready to settle down into a nice and safe and boring domesticated life.

Or maybe if I was 80, and she was 61, then maybe. Maybe she could help me remember my own name, and wipe my ass for me, and stay with me because she'd know that I didn't have much time left and then, cha ching! Life insurance money!

Nineteen years. That's 600,000,000 seconds, give or take a few tens of thousands.

Yes, that's definitely too much. Maybe. I think.

Damn she's hot though.

It wasn't my idea. I was just being a friendly person.

What the fuck was I thinking?