Portrait of a Young Man in a Shack Pondering the Complete Absence of Meaning in his Life

It had stopped raining by 2am. The thunder had scared him. He had imagined he felt a tingling, electric currents coursing through his body.
His back was sore and he had an erection. The two aches seemed similar, congruent.
Too much coffee and then the thunder. At one point lightning flashed and he had counted one-two-three before the ominous grumbling thunder had sounded. It had almost been too much, he had almost fled back into the house, fled through the teeming rain, except he hadn't. He had not chose that course of action. No, the plan was to remain here, inside this wooden summerhouse which had just been built. He lay on a fold out bed, one of only two items of furniture contained within the structure. The other was a green sun lounger. The walls and floor were bare.
Electricity. Would it be possible to have electricity in the structure? He had pondered this earlier and then asked his father. His father confirmed that it would. I would have lighting and maybe even a TV.
Swell. Sans the TV. That would be unnecessary. All he would want would be a light, so that he might read books at night.

It was all rather pathetic. Not this. I mean everything else. Everything other than this. It haunted him. The feebleness of the human condition. Maybe not even that. Vague things haunted him. Sentiments, fragments of memories. People he had known, still knew. People he remembered. The weight of these memories like an anchor that kept him grounded, inert. Resigned to this shack.
He would be drunk again before long. He sensed it. And he contemplated what he might do, what course of action he might follow, who he might choose to meet. Which people.
It was impossible to predict.
If there was one thing he had learned in America, one preference he had gleaned, it was that he was quite particular about breast size. Small or large breasts did not attract him. Regular was fine. Somewhat pert. Somewhat firm.
Och, he was awfy depressed these past couple days. Well, mibby no depressed. Just listless. Jet lagged.
He had a situation to contend with, one concerning a certain luscious wee lassie who had taken a shine to him. And he had told her things, with regard to the affection he felt for her, or thought he had felt at that stage. He had now began to question the validity of these feelings, fearing that they were borne of some sort of emotional/romantic boredom or else a reaction to the end of his relationship with another lassie. It was difficult to gauge his own motives and behaviour. He had always struggled with that.
He also encountered difficulty in making plans or any kind of decisions. He thought too much, his palms and feet sweated most of the time. He felt ill at ease in his own flesh.