Divorced man, mid-forties, job pays well but not great, tried to get into old interests to stave off depression but collecting action figures didn’t do it and he couldn’t remember how to play the ukulele, which is like the one thing that made him interesting in high school. So, he turned to those early college years when he and his friends, whom he hasn’t talked to in ages, would stay up all night smashing Jägermeister and having heady though naive conversations about the world and how things ought to be. Night after night he sat on his balcony, looking at a world that would be better if only it listened to him, ignoring his broken instrument, smashed in frustration, and occasionally espousing his philosophy 101 understanding of nihilism to his last remaining friend, the Batman, until one late night, after finishing a nice piss, the pain became too great and, in a drunken stupor, he slowly allowed himself to fall over the balcony into the sweet release of death. He left behind only unanswered emails and texts from his worried adult children. A pitiful end to a pitiful life so completely devoid of significance that the character doesn’t even warrant a name.