He found nothing about life funny. Or beautiful. Or remotely enjoyable.
He sank lower in his seat.
Well, there was his wife, and his many unpublished writings. That’s Beautiful. Enjoyable.
My writings suck.
“Then you have negative fourteen to the…” His algebra professor droned while slowly fading out of existence.
Can’t be me anymore. Must be better.
He slapped his nose.
It was a nasty habit. An indication that anxiety was about to overtake his already turbulent mind. Like a spider-sense but for obsessive compulsive writers who lack charisma and self-confidence.
He checked the time.
He sank lower.