death is sad.

Jack Tait jerked off and then washed his face.  he also brushed his teeth.  he took a dump and then flushed the toilet.  he was tired and hungover but he needed to get to the bank.  his disability pension had just come in and he needed a bottle of Jack to get him through the day.  the week.  the month.  the year.  Jack Tait had long ago given up on life but he just couldn’t die.  he had one sagging ball and sagging skin.  he knew that with each passing day he was going to get uglier and uglier.  he knew that contrary to what people had told him when he was young…GETTING OLD IS SHITTY.  wrinkled.  soft.  fat.  bald.  hairy.  ugly.  painful.  fearful.  lonely.  impotent.  sad.  Jack walked out of his shitty house in the middle of nowhere and hopped on his blue tricycle.  he lived a life filled with shame but he never hurt anyone.  he rode and rode and then rode some more. his life was filled with riding and hiding.  he eventually arrived at the bank.  he hopped off of his blue tricycle and went inside.  people looked at him but he no longer cared.  he was naked.  he walked up to the front of the line and asked for his money.  the quiet and fearful teller gave Jack his money and he exited the building.  he jumped onto his blue tricycle and just sat and observed.  he observed life and death.  animals and humans.  he watched as humans were so fast.  so rushed.  a rush to get nowhere.  rushing through life to eventually find death.  and then nothing in death.  nothing in life.  nothing in death.  just a sad, lonely, and pathetic existence.  Jack saw one hundred and fifty-two people in a rush to nowhere that day.  he sat.  he thought.  he drank.  he thought some more.  he then cried as he thought about life.  and then thought about death.  “life is too short and death is too long and too near.”  Jack Tait watched one hundred and fifty-two people going through life but eventually going through death.  he thought of his youth and his dead Dad.  he thought of his Mom.  he then thought of his brother.  family was once so important.  Jack Tait began pedalling.  rain began teaming down.  Jack Tait was alone once again.  he rode and rode and rode and eventually made it home.  dirty and wet.  Jack Tait opened the front door to his shitty house and walked in.  he sat on his shitty purple reclining chair and cried.  death is sad no matter how you spin it.  death is sad.