You’re sick of talking about yourself. You’re sick of sharing, of Snapchatting and liking and re-everything-ing. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re content with the overload of content. Maybe I’m crazy.
I’m definitely sick. I’m sick of recapping the mildly entertaining things that have happened to me. I’m sick of not creating things that are more entertaining than the things that have happened to me.
I am so fucking bored of myself — do you know that feeling? Like, you’re in a conversation and your brain is just salivating, chomping at the kibbles and bits of the etiquette you have left, just yapping at you to be a self-absorbed asshole: “quick, interject! Say something! You can relate! You did a thing like their thing, share it!”
And you’re just tired. Exhausted. Sick of yourself. Sick of hearing your own thoughts and sick of hearing your own voice — the worst part being that you don’t know which aspect of you is worse: what you think or what you say. Because they both feel so played out.
Like, your brain is a dog and the person across from you — the sound of their voice, the chance to have someone validate your life with the most vague nod of interest — is the bell. I feel like a lame, Pavlov-ass bitch.
Every day feels like that struggley moment at the end of a bad relationship, when you know you’re dragging it out past it’s ‘Best By’ date. When you’re looking at the other person and wondering why you’re still with them, just trying to push them to the edge where they’ll take the initiative and end it before you have to do it. Begrudgingly, you bait them: “baby, are you bored of me?”
Except there’s no “they” in this equation. It’s just me.
And baby? I am so fucking bored.
Powerfully bored. Bored to the point of inaction. Bored to the point of looking at my screen and thinking of nothing and then thinking of something and thinking, “no, I feel like I’m not the right person to do that thing anyway,” and then doing nothing at all.
Bored to the point of deluding myself into thinking that trying and doing something that isn’t great is worse than not trying and never doing anything, bored to the point of not understanding the basic math of work: that 1 is greater than 0, that 0 will always be worth nothing, that 0 effort means that I have nothing to add to any equation. That even .000005 would be better than the big fat 0 that you take with you everywhere you go, because it’s so light.
Bored to the point of missing the point. Bored to the point of going on for too long about nothing. Because nothing means nothing, and you will fill that void with more nothing: chatter about yourself, people who don’t give a shit about you, things you don’t need, everything extraneous. Because anything can add to nothing, but nothing, no one, no thing can make you feel like more if you never do anything but less.
I’ve been bored to the point of dulling. I’ve been so bored — so focused on myself that I don’t find myself interesting, so bored that I’ve hurt myself.
Bored to death, you know?