The hills rolled on an’ on an’ I wasn’t much in favor of anything. I saw the same scene everywhere, the same people, the same cars, an’ I was indifferent; I mean, I didn’t care. I wouldn’t even sigh, or groan, or somethin’, because that would show that I have an opinion on the matter. So I guess that when I say I wasn’t in favor of anything, I wasn’t really out of favor either. I just didn’t care.

It was a trip to my aunt’s house in North Carolina. We got there, exchanged pleasantries, an’ left. We drove back an’ I saw the same scene again, except, unlike most times, it wasn’t pretending to be different, just backwards. ‘Cept it wasn’t backwards, it was exactly the same, because when everything in life is exactly the same all the time, it can’t be backwards; I don’t think it’s ever even forwards, only still.

We got back to our house. The day after was uneventful, to use a normal person’s standards. I sat down an’ watched the TV. It was the same show I’d seen at my aunt’s house, an’ at the diner we stopped at on our trip, an’ the same show I’d seen anywhere else in the whole world. I went into the kitchen an’ grabbed a drink; I didn’t bother to look at whatever it was, ‘cause they all tasted the same to me.

Eventually, Phil came over. Phil’s my age an’ a boy. Otherwise, I didn’t really know anything about him, ‘cept that he was just like everyone else. I think he thought that we were good friends, an’ that my apparent flightiness was endearing or somethin’. He came over an’ we sat down an’ didn’t really do anything, ‘cause I didn’t feel like feigning interest in baseball, ‘cause that meant that I would care about how he felt about me an’ I didn’t, ‘cause I didn’t care about anything. He left after maybe an hour an’ my parents came home, I don’t remember when. I didn’t say hello to them, they didn’t say hi to me. I guess it’s ‘cause, in the end, they stopped caring too.

An’ that was life. Day in, day out, it didn’t change. None of it mattered, really, ‘cause it was a nowhere life. I guess I was a bit of a nowhere man, or at least that’s John says. I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t know if I even care.

Life wore on. It was still the same: I was the same, he was the same, they were the same, it was the same. I guess that’s what made me did it. I didn’t care about anything at all in life, so I stopped it all. The same-old, same-old broke me an’ I just made it stop.

It was my father’s gun, passed down to him by his father, if I remember correctly. It wasn’t rather interesting when I shot myself; I just put it to my head an’ did it, but, then again, nothing was interesting. I didn’t care about being interesting, though. I didn’t care about anything. An’ so I died.

In the split second after I pulled the trigger but before I died, I realized that my last action of existence was a hypocritical one: I had cared about dying.