The wind howls through dead elms,

whistling against my drafty House.

Winter bites, but I barely feel it—

the glow of my monitor is warmth enough.

I am 40. I am Bald.

I do not get laid.

My headset crackles:

a meeting, another one,

numb faces in little squares,

voices like static,

tasks stacking like the snow outside.

Lunch is cold coffee,

a sandwich eaten in silence.

The Xbox boots up, its green glow mocking me.

Losing the gen, losing the game.

I drop into a lobby full of kids

who move faster than my reflexes allow.

I tell myself I don’t care.

I don’t have friends. I don’t go out.

I wouldn’t know where to go.

Once, I had Hair. Once, my Skull wasn’t expanded.

Now the mirror tells a different story.

Connecticut winter stretches endlessly ahead,

a gray sky, an empty inbox, an ignominious Xbox

another day alone,

waiting for nothing.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5675073&forum_id=2#48620613)