You don’t say. What was the tip-off? The thumb twiddling? Was it the eyes rolling back in my head, the pacing, the sighing, the yawning, the staring into the middle distance. The telltale signs aren’t just obvious, they’re glaring. I’m in the advanced stages here, in extremis, I could go any minute.
I’m so flipping bored, I’m stupefied. I’ve played Angry Birds, checked the weather, checked my email, checked my pulse. Do you know how many ways there are to say boredom? Lots. I checked that, too. There’s lassitude, lethargy, and ennui. There’s tedium. There’s malaise, logy, torpor, ennervation, listlessness. Plus a couple dozen more, but who cares? Boredom is boredom.
I’m tired of movies, too restless to read a book, and too antsy to concentrate. If it wasn’t cold and windy and snowy, I’d go for a bike ride. Bike riding isn’t boring — terrifying and often painful, but never boring. The harsh reality is, it’s winter and I’m trapped in here until April at the earliest. Possibly June. I’ll never make it until then.
What I should be doing is drafting my obituary, preparing for the inevitable; I’ll need one if things don’t perk up. But I can’t sit still and I can’t sustain a thought, so it’s pointless to even tr … here spider, spider …
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