God I hate this place. Itís boring to say the least. There are old people everywhere. I mean the average age would have to be at least 85. And thatís not even an over-estimation. A retirement village is what they call it. Itís meant to be a place where you go once youíve retired from your career. I like to think of it as a place you go when youíre beginning to retire from life. Itís eerie to say the least. The fact that near on ninety percent of the residents here will die within the next five to ten makes me uneasy. And of course the undeniable thought that this dreadful place will be their final memory. God thatís depressing. And the smell. Goddamn. Dusty musty curtains and carpet, plagued the air, every air brought in a truly unpleasant smell of old. If I ever find myself stuck in a place like this for the ending years of my life Iíll end it there and then. Though that seems kind of sad, for Iíll still die in a dreadful hell-hole like this one here. Age really is the worst disease. Anyway, why am I here? Iíll tell you in just a second, but you will definitely think differently of me once you hear why I am in this mouldy old house in a retirement village. Most of you could guess, even empathise with me. But for those who canít, let me get through the extensiveness of my distaste for the hole that is this dilapidated and decrepit house. I call it a house because a ramshackle such as this could not and should not be anyoneís home. It was always so dull and quiet. How can one even think in such a silence? It sends me mad; my thoughts just canít stop from running wild about how much my hatred is growing as every hand on the clock moves. Actually, I take back that quiet. This house, and many others in this disgraceful village, had these rather large and obnoxious clocks. I say they are obnoxious because they are noisy, to the point where literally every second they interject in any form of conversation you may have whence in this ruinous abode. And donít get me started what happened every quarter of an hour. A stupid whimsical tone emanated so loudly from the clock, which any form of television, music or conversation one was trying to listen to had to be paused for about one minute. God that was frustrating. Everything was an eye sore around here. I never got those people who rant and rave about antique furniture. It all looks dull and boring for my tastes. Give me something modern to entice my mind, and stop me from vomiting all over the place. Tan bricks matched the, you guessed it, tan floorboards, as well as the brown couches and the beige woollen rug that sat on the floor. It really made my head spin with how terrible the interior designers had worked to make such a depressing place. I guess itís meant to be depressing, I mean, if youíre a resident, youíre going to die in here eventually. Whatís to be happy about here? The remaining years? Please, in a place like this, the remaining years are swallowing the puke you almost chuck up every time you walk into your living room and waiting for deathís cold hand to grip your throat and take you into the abyss of the non-existent afterlife.