April 25, 2019:
Dockers, white, wrinkled. Jellybelly beginning to spill over the belt. White shirt tucked in, brown leather bomber jacket no longer cool. Tie too short, thin-looking hair pulled back into a frizzy pony tail. Cheeks puffy, going to fat. Eyes swollen, prolly from drugs. False grin, although the smile of his very pretty young girlfriend is genuine.
It's so redundant here to talk of depression. This isn't so much depression as a form of walking suicide: deliberate destruction of his personality, his history, his plans, certainly his attractiveness.
Deliberate: absolutely. Calculated. To atrophy his prodigious sexuality: no women will want me like this.
Disintegration of all he had been.