This guy has pillow hair. And he just doesn’t really care.
Picking up the morning paper, in his thin, white shirt and underwear
The nights are cruel when there’s nothing to do. No friends to call, and no one is calling you.
Looking like he slept with wolves the night before, he struggles like a newborn deer to make it out the door.
Stumbling and shuffling outside in a drowsy daze, his eyes painfully adjust to the suns morning rays
With the grace of a zombie and a drug-induced stare, he picks up the daily news, and heads back to his lair.
His fridge is more vacant than a motel in Kentucky. An expired gallon of milk, you may find if you’re feeling lucky.
And in the freezer you’ll witness a few frozen beef burritos. A cabinet with some ramen and a half-eaten bag of Cheetos.
His life is more bland than a watered-down coke. No carbonation, no fizzle, no punch-line from a joke.
He’s one mental step away from turning quite mad. No emotions coming or going, not happy, not even sad.
His clothes are very plain, and some days he looks likes a mess. There’s no worries for this guy, for he has no one to impress.
The last time he spoke to a girl he can’t quite recall. Was it the Summer of 1995? Or was it later that Fall?
“Ticket for one…” he mumbles to the girl behind the glass. Three easy words when buying a single movie pass.
Whatever he’s looking for, I doubt he’ll find it. If he had the chance to replay his life, he’d rather sleep than rewind it.
But “Let this man go!” I cry, to fulfill his wondrous plan. To reside in the shadows of society while others get a nice tan.
There’s really no more to say about our middle-aged friend. We can only pity his life when it comes to an uneventful end.
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