Crab Apple

I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Don't mistake this for self pity.
I think I might be the most annoying person in all of New York City.
I'm obnoxious, I'm loud,
I quote Maureen Dowd.
I make fun of transplants.
But so were my grandparents.

I'm still kind to strangers who don't seem like danger.
I don't fear the rough 'hoods like I do rural back woods.
I'm pretentious and snide, the subways I ride.
In love with diversity and when street kids curse at me.
All my money is spent on ridiculous rent.

Trendy clubs, scenes and bars,
and still can't drive a car.
Eat out more than in, I can cook.
It's a sin.

The summers here suck, but alas there's still luck.

Four seasons, that's right, relief's always in sight.

There's no place like home when you're bored or alone.

Neighbors just through the wall, I can hear their phone call,

or bless them when sneezing, the winters are freezing.

Public school educated,
can't count the douche bags I've dated,
this place is my home,
though the world I still roam.