Jack’s breath smells like urine and toast.

construction banging outside.  girls talking downstairs.  dogs barking next door.  doorbells ringing.  music playing on stereo downstairs.  on the computer upstairs.  wife talking to Jack Tait about her burnt finger from the curling iron while trying to curl her hair.  Jack’s Mom calling about Taylor’s Christmas present.  Hare Krishna’s knocking on the door in their dumb blue suits and short hair.  television cranking out nothing but noise and bad outfits.  bad costumes and bad wigs.  bad conversation and bad jokes.  then an amazing song by The Jonestown Massacre comes on the computer and it makes everything better.  “The Devil May Care” is filled with pain and torment.  Jack hears fluff coming from the stereo downstairs.  it could be Taylor Swift.  it could be Beyoncé.  It could be Jennifer Lopez.  or it could be anyone of the so called musicians who are actually strippers and whores and slaves to an industry that is run by bean counters with small dicks but big ego’s and even bigger guts.  maggots who feel they are important but will die losers of the worst king.  non contributors. 
Jack Tait drinks down his fifth coffee of the day and tries to keep his eyes and heart open.  his pants have been at his ankles for two hours trying to blow out a big blob of semen but nothing seems to be working.  porn.  Victoria Secret models.  Women Tennis players.  Women musicians.  Jack is sweating and frustrated.
“What are you doing Jack?”  asks his wife Chloe.
“Trying to blow my load.”  replies Jack.
“oh…we’re going out soon to get our nails done and then buy our Disney tickets.”
“Okay…I’ll stay home or maybe go snowshoeing in the park filled with coyotes and rabbits.”
“Bye Jack.”
“Bye Chloe.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“And you too Taylor.”
“Love you Dad.  Running hug?”
“Sure Taylor.  I love your running hugs.”
Taylor runs and jumps on Jack while Chloe throws down a big bag of laundry. Jack turns around sweating and chilled at the same time.  Taylor on top of her Daddy.
“Okay Taylor.  Love you.”
“Love you too Dad.”
They both leave the house.  Construction noises still pounding on Jack’s head.  Head foggy.  shitty music coming from somewhere.
Jack gives up and tries to read.  he then closes his book and stretches.  he then checks under the bed.  he needs some excitement.  some toys.  he wonders if he will live until he is 100 years old and create art that matters and piss off everyone and everything in the meantime.  Jack’s breath smells like urine and toast.
Jack collapses on the shitty couch.  voices still clouding his big heart.  his big brain.  coffee mugs.  pens.  shitty music.  shitty neighbours.  shitty town.  shitty country.  shitty world filled with hopes and desires but a life condemned.  a life destined for nothingness.  Jack hears a phone noise that indicates a message has been sent.  he once would attack his phone expecting good news.  these days he clings to his couch in lethargy as no news is good news.
Jack farts and falls asleep.  another day closer to death.  another day closer to failure.  another day closer to regret.  another day closer to loss.
LIFE.