dull.

Jack Tait is tired.  tired of people.  tired of rules.  tired of fakes.  tired of phonies.  tired of life.  he has periodic bouts of energy followed by periodic bouts of drunkenness and periodic bouts of diarrhea.
  Jack Tait lives by himself on a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.  drunk daily.  masturbates daily.  shits daily.  reads daily.  listens to music daily.  he sometimes wishes he could see people again but then soon realizes how dull and boring they are.  dull lives.  dull stories.  dull houses.  dull cars.  dull girlfriends.  dull boyfriends.  dull dogs.  dull sex lives.  DULL.
  Jack Tait sits alone and naked on his shitty purple reclining chair and ponders life.  he also ponders death.  he has a headache and his brain is scattered.  he finishes off his forty of Jack Daniels and stumbles to the bathroom.  he is edgy.  he is restless.  he is alone.  he sits on the “can” and falls asleep.  nothing happens.  nothing.  his left ball is sore.  he feels guilty even when sleeping.  bad temper.  bad words.  bad breath.  bad.  mad.  sad. 
  he wakes up four hours later and runs out the door.  he screams.  he runs.  he screams some more.  “HELP ME.  HELP ME.  HELP ME.  FOR I HAVE SINNED.”  no answer.  no sound.  no sun.  no life.  no voice.  no one.  alone.  tired.  left ball still hurting.  dry mouth.  thirsty.  naked.  stuck.  Jack Tait stumbles back into his house and grabs his Louisville Slugger.  He swings it once.  he swings it twice.  he swings it three times and sits down.  tired.  old.  wrinkled.  lonely.  frustrated.  hot.  heat flashes will never end.  dull.  his left ball still sore.  Jack Tait quietly falls asleep.  life is nearing it’s end.